


Masquerade

by omphale23, slidellra (sli)



Category: due South
Genre: Co-Written, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sli/pseuds/slidellra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray went to the closet, pushing aside Andreas's perfectly organized clothes, all cashmere and silk and fine wool, looking for his heavy winter coat. He found it rolled up in a ball on the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **ds_harlequin**. This due South AU is based on the 1963 film _Charade_, with much unrepentant theft of good lines.
> 
> We'd like to thank all of the betas who worked on this--**eledhwenlin**, **j_s_cavalcante**, **madsciencechick**, and **wordplay**. They gave us great advice, even if we didn't always take it. We'd also like to thank all of you who listened to us talk about this piece over the last few months, and **shoemaster**, who gave us a challenge to post it by suggesting a prompt that was so wonderfully close to a story we might never have otherwise finished.
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are entirely our own.

** _"take a walk, take a rest, a taste of this."_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray was in the bedroom when Andreas came home. He paused to listen, tracking Andreas's footsteps in the echoing apartment. Bathroom, the faucet running. Andreas was weird about that, washed his hands constantly, took a lot of showers. A few more steps, the tinkle of crystal and ice. Then silence. Ray kept packing.

Andreas appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He just watched with dark eyes, taking slow sips of his drink.

"You sure you can't come?" Ray went to the closet, pushing aside Andreas's perfectly organized clothes, all cashmere and silk and fine wool, looking for his heavy winter coat. He found it rolled up in a ball on the floor.

"You sure you don't want a new parka? That ragged-ass thing is lame."

"I like my coat. Where you been?"

"Had some business."

"Business." Ray's voice was flat. He wasn't expecting an explanation anymore.

"Yeah." Andreas set the glass on the bedside table, and sat down, spreading his legs and leaning back on an elbow. "Gonna be a long week."

"You don't say."

"Don't be like that, baby."

Even as the endearment made Ray flinch, the way Andreas spoke, drawing the words out just a bit, savoring them, still got to him.

Dropping the coat on top of his duffle, Ray walked over to grab his glasses off the nightstand. Andreas sat up, a smooth, easy motion, and ran a hand up the inside seam of Ray's jeans, fingers lingering on the fly as he watched Ray's face.

Ray lifted Andreas's drink and sipped, the scotch smoky sharp on his tongue. When he didn't move away, Andreas popped the buttons, one by one, his hand warm on the heavy fabric over Ray's dick.

Lifting one hand to Ray's cheek, Andreas brought his mouth down, kissed him with those soft, full lips. They'd always been good at kissing, and Ray gave in to it, feeling how good it had been, how good it could be. After everything else that had gone wrong, it couldn't make things worse to let Andreas savor him a little now.

Those soft lips got more demanding as Andreas slipped his hands into Ray's jeans to palm his ass.

Pulling his mouth away, Ray said, "They'll be here any minute."

Andreas tilted his head back, giving Ray a smoky look from under dark lashes. "I'll drive you to the airport. Come on," he coaxed, leaning back again and running a hand over the bulge in his own pants.

Ray considered it. Sex was good. He liked sex, and Andreas was very good. But his ride was on its way, and all the sex in the world wasn't going to fix this thing between them.

Shaking his head sharply, he said, "Nope, I gotta go." He stepped back and buttoned his jeans before pocketing his glasses.

"You turning into a tease, Ray?" Andreas's voice was light. He fought soft, all smooth digs and graceful dodges, hard to pin down. "Don't I get something to remember you by during your little family vacation?"

"Handle it yourself, Andreas," Ray said, slinging the duffle over his shoulder. "You don't fucking own me."

"Since when?"

Ray stared, almost too surprised to be pissed. "The fuck did you say?"

"Just messing with you, baby. You know, if you got laid you might not be so uptight."

Ray stepped closer, jabbed his fingers in Andreas's face. "Getting laid isn't the problem and you know it."

Andreas looked away then, down and to the left, like all liars do. He was slipping, Ray thought, just as the buzzer rang loud through the apartment.

"That's my ride." Ray couldn't think of anything else to say that was both true and wouldn't lead to yelling and punching so he left.

 

** _"the stories always end the same"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Skiing sucked. It was cold and it made his knees hurt. Plus, his hair looked stupid squashed from the knit cap. Pizza and beer, on the other hand, didn't suck. Ray was alone for a moment, the Vecchios off recovering from a morning on the slopes. The lodge pizza was good, the pineapple small enough to get the flavor in every bite, not like they did it in some places, with the pineapple in big too-hot chunks that tried to roll away. He pushed the slice around on his plate. Things were at all at time record level of suckage when even good pineapple pizza tasted like dirt.

A sudden eyeful of water didn't help his mood. Ray mopped at his face, blinking. Fuck. Of all the times not to be wearing his glasses.

Once he'd cleared his eyes, he saw the source of his misery. Frannie, in a bright pink snowsuit, holding a pink plastic water gun and giggling her little girl giggle. It wouldn't be right to kick a kid. He'd have to wait until she hit puberty before giving her the many ass-kickings she deserved. As if she could read his mind, she blew a big round pink bubble (if he wasn't blinded by the water, the overdose of color would do it) and popped it.

"Don't tell me you didn't know it was loaded," Ray snarled, then bellowed, "STELLA!"

Stella appeared with a tray in her hands, pretty in her sleek ski outfit. She took in the scene at a glance and, damn her, giggled.

"Isn't there something constructive she can do--like start an avalanche?" Ray shot Frannie another glare. She stuck her tongue out.

"Honey, why don't you go find Daddy? He's right over there, insulting the cafeteria lasagna." Stella pointed Frannie in the right direction, then joined Ray at the table. "You're not eating. When you won't eat pizza something is wrong."

Ray sat back in the chair and sighed. "I'm leaving him."

Spearing a bite of salad, Stella asked, "Volpe?"

"No, my _other_ boyfriend. I've tried to make it work, but..."

"But what?"

"I can't explain it. It just sucks. Maybe I'll go straight and steal you from Vecchio."

She gave him a smile. "That ship sailed a long time ago, love."

"No flirting with my wife." Vecchio pulled out a chair and joined them, dropping a sandwich on the table and draping a possessive arm over Stella's shoulders.

Stella stole Ray's pizza and took a bite. "Volpe's rich. He's good looking."

Vecchio snorted. "He's a crook."

"You don't know that, Vecchio. He's never been convicted." It was an old argument. "You guys know me, I don't give up. But he's hiding something. He's hiding everything, I don't know. Jesus, all I want is a guy who doesn't lie to me. Is that too much to ask?"

Something big and red loomed over the table. All three of them looked up to see a guy in a red parka, Frannie clinging to his hand and staring up at him adoringly. The guy asked, "Does this belong to you?"

Ray looked him over. Dark hair, blue eyes, sexy mouth. He was pretty, handsome, so gorgeous it was like a mask, like it couldn't be his real face. Like there had to be something nasty behind it. "It's theirs. Where'd you find her, robbing a bank?"

"She was throwing snowballs at John Engler." The guy cocked his head. "We don't know each other, do we?"

Ray grinned. "Why, do you think we're going to?"

"I don't know. How would I know?" The guy was flustered, might even be blushing a little. It was cute.

"I know lots of people. Until one of 'em dies, I don't think I can meet anybody new."

"Yes, of course. Well, please do let me know if anyone goes on the critical list." The guy smiled at all of them and started to move away, held back by Frannie's death grip on his hand. Somebody had a new admirer.

"Quitter," Ray said.

"I beg your pardon?" The guy looked startled.

"You give up awfully easy, don't you?" Ray let his eyes wander a bit. The parka was kind of loose, but the jeans said the guy dressed left. Good to know. Not that he was ready to move on or anything. But there was nothing wrong with admiring the view.

"Well," Stella said brightly, looking at Vecchio, "I think it's time for a stroll. Maybe we'll be in time to get a few shots at the governor."

"No, I think we should stay." Vecchio gave Ray a hard look. "Keep the kids out of trouble."

"Children need their independence, Ray. Come on." Stella managed to detach Frannie, and steered them away; Vecchio grabbing his sandwich and muttering about Volpe, Frannie staring at the red guy over her shoulder until she tripped over her little pink boots.

"You're blocking my view," Ray told Mr. Clean-cut and Handsome.

The guy glanced over his shoulder out the window. "I'm sorry. Which view would you like?"

"The one you're blocking." Ray reached out with his foot and pushed a chair away from the table, pleased when the guy took the hint and sat down. "This is the last chance I have--We're flying back to Chicago tonight. You got a name?"

"Yes." The guy rubbed his eyebrow before continuing. "Robert Benton."

"Ray Kowalski. Got a... partner, Mr. Benton?" Ray liked to flirt, but he'd learned the hard way to get his cards on the table early. Some straight guys just couldn't take a compliment.

"Yes, but he's a wolf. Well, not entirely a wolf. But whenever he's not with me, he's out all night with the local bitches." The guy shrugged. "We don't belong to each other."

"That wasn't a proposal. I was just curious."

"Is there a Mrs. Kowalski?"

That was a good one. Ray couldn't tell if the guy was playing with him. "Now why would you want to know about my mother? There's a Volpe."

"Ah. Good for you. Is it an arctic fox?"

"It's a boyfriend. But we're breaking up."

The guy actually looked guilty. "Please, not on my account."

Ray grinned. "Nah, it wasn't working out even before you and me."

"Ah."

"He's a liar. I hate liars. Like when you go into Starbucks."

A wrinkle appeared between Robert's pretty eyes. "I'm not sure I..."

"Well, you go in and you ask for some coffee--the small size--and the kid brings you a large and calls it a Tall. You tell him you wanted the small size but he says the Tall is the small size, even if it looks like a large. I always thought the large size was the largest size, but he says that the Grande and a bunch of others are all larger than the large size--that the large size is the smallest size there is."

"Oh. I suppose so." Robert still looked confused. "Is your Volpe with you?"

"He's hardly ever with me. First it was separate lives, now we're trying it with cities. What do people call you--Rob? Bob? Bobby?"

"I generally use my surname."

"Benton." Ray tested how it felt on his tongue. Not an improvement on Robert, really.

"Well, it was a pleasure talking with you." Benton pushed his chair back and stood.

Ray stood as well, walked with him out of the cafe. "What, scare you off?"

"No, I'm not--I've got some packing to do. I'm going back to Chicago today as well."

"Oh. Well, wasn't it Shakespeare who said: 'When strangers do meet they should erelong see one another again'?"

"Shakespeare never said that," Benton said, stern but with a little grin flickering at the edges of his mouth. Ray liked it.

"How do you know?"

"It's terrible. You just made it up."

Ray shrugged, leaned against the wall. Damn, it was cold out here. "Yeah, well. I'm only a poet on the inside. The spirit's right anyway. You going to call me?"

Benton reached out and ran his hand through Ray's hair, gently tugging it up, and smiling at the result. "Are you listed in the telephone directory?"

"Yeah." Ray was moving before he realized what he meant to do, which was press his lips against Benton's mouth. For just a moment Benton kissed him back. By the time he opened his eyes, Benton was gone.

 

** _"deal me another hand before the games begin"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) O'Hare was a disaster, as usual. Twelve years of construction, and it was still like one of those mazes, the ones with the rats. Only with a baggage carousel. And no cheese. Ray grabbed his bag and Frannie's and followed the Vecchios to the parking lot. He wasn't looking around for a flash of red. He was more trying to avoid being run down by one of those evil guys with the carts.

They chatted all the way into town about stupid stuff, school fees and whether the Cubs were going all the way this year, which they weren't. Ray tried to keep his eyes open, but the heat was on and he hadn't been sleeping all that well. With a little luck, Andreas wouldn't be home yet, because he wanted to go straight to bed.

He woke with a start to the sound of Vecchio's voice. "Hey, Kowalski. Home sweet home. Get out, I'm in a fire zone." Stella climbed out of the front seat, and Ray crawled out after her. He was getting too old to sit in the back seat.

He dropped his bag on the sidewalk. "Thanks for the ride, Stell."

"No problem, Ray. We'll see you at dinner on Sunday?"

Vecchio interrupted. "Hey, don't be inviting that slacker to Ma's house. He can get his own family."

Stella rolled her eyes. "One o'clock, Ray. Bring some wine. Maria and Tony are going to be there." She kissed his cheek and got back in the car. Ray slammed the door and headed inside.

He grabbed the mail, tossed out yesterday's Trib, and headed to the elevator. The doorman was giving him the fisheye and whispering into the phone, but Ray was used to that. Still, it was good he wouldn't be here much longer. He was getting tired of all the goddamn drama attached to living with Andreas. He flipped through the bills while the elevator took its own sweet time, and already had his keys out when it stopped on his floor. He couldn't wait to get inside, grab a beer, and relax on the overpriced leather couch.

Which was gone.

Along with pretty much everything they owned. The furniture, the paintings, the goofy little carvings that Andreas insisted were worth more than his car. Even his stereo, the one thing he'd brought from the old place when everything else went into storage, had vanished like a bad dream. Ray spun around in disbelief, sure that he must be missing something. He whispered, "Andreas? What's going on?"

Nobody answered. He didn't know if that was frightening, or a small comfort. Maybe both. Ray rubbed his eyes, but when he opened them, the room was still empty. "Volpe? What the hell?"

Still no answer. Right. So, obviously this was a crime scene. It had to be a crime scene, because if it wasn't he was going to _kill_ Andreas. So, first things first, he had to figure out what was missing.

That turned out to be almost everything. What little was left (his hair stuff, a few old letters in a cardboard box that he'd shoved in the top of the closet) wasn't even enough to overfill his duffle bag. Not that he had anywhere to take it. But, if he had to, he could cram his stuff into the trunk of the GTO and find a place to crash. Maybe he'd ruin Vecchio's week, too. Drive out to Oak Park and ask Stella to put him up in the guest room for a few days.

And that right there was a horrible thought. What if they'd taken the GTO? Whoever had tossed the place couldn't have seen it. Unless this wasn't a random thing, and whoever had the stuff also knew where his car was.

Maybe his instincts were wrong. Maybe the GTO was sitting safely in the garage, waiting for him to come get it. The dismay vanished, replaced by anger and a serious impulse to hit something. He wasn't picky, so the next person who gave him bad news was going to get pounded.

He headed for the elevator again, nearly running down Welsh. Who looked like the bearer of some seriously bad news. Great. The one guy he couldn't take out some misplaced aggression on was standing in the hallway outside his burglarized apartment.

"Kowalski, I see you've returned."

More like he'd heard about it. Probably from the stupid doorman, who was _not_ getting a bonus this year. "Lieu. You making house calls now?"

"You need to come down to the station with me. We'll talk there." So much for the chit chat.

Well, wasn't that convenient. Nothing in Ray's life was ever convenient. "You know, I was just headed there. Somebody stole all our stuff."

Welsh didn't look surprised, which wasn't really a surprise. "Have you seen Volpe since you got back?"

"I just walked in the door, my shit is gone like it grew wings and flew away, and you want to know if I've had time to bang my boyfriend?"

Welsh just glared at him.

Ray blew out a quick breath. Not a good time to get himself fired. "Sorry, sir. It's been a long day."

"You need to come with me. We'll talk at the station."

"Right. Before I do, am I being arrested?" He didn't get even a tiny smile. This was worse than bad.

"For crimes against fashion, maybe. Come on, you can ride with me."

"No thanks, I'll grab the Goat and meet you there."

"Trust me on this. I'll give you a ride." Well, fuck. This day just kept getting better.

 

** _"one more hit and i'll be fine"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray hated the morgue. The cold, the smell, the dead people. Not his scene.

Andreas would have laughed at him, if he'd known. Would have called him a girl or something.

Andreas wouldn't be laughing any more. And he'd never know that Ray hated the morgue and dead bodies, or that Ray was leaving him.

His earrings were gone, and his face was scraped up, but he wasn't the grossest dead guy Ray'd ever seen. Not by a long shot.

Ray wanted to puke. He nodded, cleared his throat, said, "Yeah. That's Andreas Volpe."

The attendant pulled the sheet back up over Andreas's face and Ray was out of there.

Welsh caught up to him in the hall, leaning over with a hand braced against the wall, trying to get back some control. He laid a hand on Ray's shoulder and his voice was almost gentle when he said, "Come on up to my office; it's time for you and me to have a chat."

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Welsh had a lot to say, it turned out. Stuff about suspicious circumstances, enough clues so Ray knew somebody'd thrown Andreas off the El, and didn't that make his stomach do a nice little tap dance. Ray mostly said stuff like "Huh" and "I don't know," especially to Welsh's 1001 questions about Andreas's life and money and death, answers he didn't seem to like a whole hell of a lot. Right about now, neither did Ray.

It bugged him, not knowing the answers, so he gave Welsh some lip to go along with his "I don't know"s. Welsh handed it right back to him. "Don't pull this snot-nosed punk routine with me, Kowalski. You'll find yourself on the receiving end of a head-kicking. You were a cop. You must have noticed something."

That stung. "He did his thing, I did mine. We lived together. He said he wasn't mixed up in anything illegal, that he was getting harassed for being involved with a cop." He met Welsh's eyes and swallowed. "Back then, I believed him. You know I did. I quit the force because of it."

He filled Welsh in on where he'd been and with whom, and Welsh seemed relieved that he had an ASA and a cop as alibi. So maybe he still had somebody in his corner, even if most of the force thought he was scum for shacking up with Andreas, scum for giving them a collective 'fuck you' and quitting. Welsh at least had the grace not to rub his face in it.

Ray identified Andreas's possessions, which weren't much: his phone, his PDA, his wallet, mints, his sunglasses. It was the same little collection he'd seen a hundred times before; nothing to explain what happened. He did find out that Andreas had sold the contents of the apartment, and that the cops were pretty damn interested in where the proceeds had gone. Ray didn't care. He was pissed as hell his stuff was ruined or gone, but it wasn't like it was worth much money anyway.

Except for the Goat. When he heard that it was missing from the garage, he had to put his head down in his hands for a couple of minutes. And punch Welsh's desk, which earned him a bruised hand and some classic Welsh bellowing, just like the good old days.

Finally the interview wound down and Ray asked, "So what now?"

Welsh leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his gut. "You're not a prime suspect, but we'll be looking at you pretty closely. You're free to stay in the apartment."

Fuck that. He needed a new place to live. Somewhere he could afford on just what he made interpreting. Shit. "What about my job?"

"You'll be expected to show up on time and do the work. You're not due back for another three days, right?"

Ray nodded.

"Stay away until then. This is stirring up some of the ill will from when you left the force; we don't need you in here making it worse."

He got up, "Thanks, Lieutenant."

"And, Kowalski? Don't do anything stupid. You're mixed up in something ugly, and you don't have backup anymore."

 

** _"a dangerous idea that almost makes sense"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Welsh had a black and white drop him off at his apartment. The place didn't look any better when he walked in the second time. Still a mess of scattered papers and broken glass, still lacking in anything resembling his life. Ray looked down at the keys in his hand. He had keys for a missing car, a vacant apartment, a safe deposit box that he knew had been emptied, and a dozen other places and things that he'd lost. Somewhere on the ring was the key to a pair of handcuffs he'd given up, along with his career, for Andreas Volpe.

Bastard. How dare he leave first? All those half-truths, all that time, and here Ray was, standing in an empty room, looking at himself in the mirror and not liking the guy staring back at him. He barely even registered the keychain leaving his hand, couldn't figure out why the mirror was suddenly shattered and crashing to the floor. Seven years bad luck, and he had no idea that stuff worked backwards.

Something moved in the shadows of the bedroom doorway. Ray started to reach for a gun he wasn't carrying. The outline looked familiar, and Ray hid his relief with annoyance when Robert Benton stepped out into the dim living room. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He looked good in a suit, starchy but not uncomfortable. It was almost like he was wearing some sort of uniform, and definitely a change from the coat and jeans he'd been wearing the first time they met. He looked taller, somehow. And a little nervous.

Benton tugged at his collar. That was a tell if ever he'd seen one. Nervousness, discomfort. Hiding something. "I phoned but no one answered. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am." Ray nodded in acknowledgment. "And to ask if there was anything I could do."

"How'd you find out?" Please, don't let it be on the news. He didn't want to deal with the sympathetic looks. Or the smug ones.

Benton cleared his throat. "It was in the papers." Fuck. "I am sorry for your loss."

Given that he'd told the guy that he was leaving Andreas, Ray wasn't sure why they were still having this conversation. Still, he figured the conventions had to be followed. "Thank you."

"I rang the bell, but it seems to be broken."

"Worked fine last time I checked. How'd you get in?"

Benton moved through the apartment, stepping around the broken glass to stare out the window. Ray didn't know what he was looking for, since all you could see from this high up were offices and other people's apartments. "Your landlady let me in. She's rather fond of you."

They had a landlady? Ray had only ever met the doorman. Where would they keep a landlady in this building? "Huh. News to me."

"Was it always so...sparsely furnished?" Well, that was one way to put it.

"Andreas sold it all. Some kind of auction."

"I see. Do you know what you're going to do?" Benton was bending down, scooping up the keys and kicking the mirror shards into a neat pile.

"Do I look like I know what I'm going to do? I come home, find out my boyfriend's dead and he's sold all our stuff, and you think I've got some sort of plan? Like I could prepare for this?" Ray was not going to lose it. He took a deep breath. And another. It didn't work. He could feel his control slipping.

Benton walked over and grabbed his wrist. Looked a little shocked that he'd done it. But he didn't let go. "You can't stay here."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Couch surfing with Stella and Vecchio? Go home with Benton and fuck his troubles away? It was possible that he wasn't thinking too clearly at the moment. He was tired, he was hungry, and he just wanted to go home. Wherever that was.

"We'll find you a hotel." So much for a nice comfy couch or maybe bunking in with the pretty new acquaintance. Stella always used too much starch on the sheets, anyway.

"Right, yeah, a hotel. That'd be good. Not too expensive. I'm not a...well, I'm not whatever I was." Fuck Andreas. He wasn't anybody's kept boy. He wasn't anybody's anything, now. Maybe he never had been.

"Something modest, then. But clean."

Ray'd settle for something with a bed at this point. But sure, clean would be good. He slung his duffle over his shoulder and looked around at his old life. "You know, I liked this room. I don't think Andreas ever saw it. All that expensive stuff." He took one last look. No way was he coming back here again. "I like it better this way."

 

** _"i just want to feel"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) The funeral home was cold. Ray huddled into himself, the suit he'd borrowed from Vecchio failing to keep out the chill. It was a sharp suit. Ray didn't like it. It reminded him of the the too-slick ones Andreas had bought and then sold out from under him. Ray didn't mind losing the threads. They weren't ever really his, weren't his style. Not like the Goat. God, how shitty was it that he was grieving the loss of his car more than he was Andreas?

Andreas was laid out for viewing in the front of the room. Ray didn't look up there. He wished Benton was here. Wished he'd spent the night, actually. But no, Benton had just tucked Ray away in his boring, empty, "modest but respectable" hotel room, then taken himself off with nothing more than an "I'll be seeing you, Ray." Who cared if it looked trashy, Ray wanted to be seeing him _now_. He would have been good to lean on.

On Ray's left, Vecchio muttered, "Not much of a turnout, is it?"

Ray didn't need to glance around the room to know that it was empty. A couple plainclothes guys in the back. The beefy funeral director in the corner.

On Ray's right, Stella whispered, "Didn't he have any friends?"

Ray shook his head. "Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck, Stella, if he did, he didn't introduce them to me."

The door at the back opened with a squeak and a man came up the aisle, a man with a wrinkled face and bright eyes, skinny and small but moving like a much bigger guy in his tan overcoat.

Overcoat stood next to the casket, staring down at Andreas's body. Ray winced when the guy sneezed twice, quick and loud like gunshots. Wiping his face with a handkerchief, he turned, avoiding eye contact, and sat in one of the wooden chairs.

"He must have known Andreas pretty well," Stella said dryly.

"Why?"

"He's allergic to him."

At that, Vecchio groaned and Ray almost smiled.

The lighter mood was broken almost immediately, when the door swung smoothly open and another man came in, this one tall and lean, dressed in a slim, western-style suit.

He sauntered up the aisle and leaned over the casket, giving Ray a nice view of long legs and a handsome, weathered profile. Ray stared in disbelief when the guy fished a small mirror out of his pocket and held it over Andreas's mouth, then checked it for condensation. Seemingly satisfied, he slipped the mirror back into his pocket, plucked a flower out of his lapel and laid it in the casket.

"Arrivederci, Andreas." The stranger's voice was quiet and hoarse. Swinging around, he strolled towards Ray and the Vecchios, stopping in front of them in a distracting hip-cocked stance.

"Stanley Kowalski?"

Ray automatically said, "Ray," elbowing Vecchio as he did. When he realized what he'd done, he grimaced. "Sorry, man. Reflex."

"Ray." The man leaned forward a little, gazing at Ray. He had fine crows feet around his eyes. "Andreas had no call to do it that way."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ray asked belligerently, but the tall man just held his gaze a couple of beats, then moved off with slow, long strides to take a seat several rows back.

Ray's head hurt. The situation just kept getting weirder, and there were only so many mysterious, hot strangers he could be expected to meet this week.

The door was flung open with a resounding boom. Startled by the noise, Ray jumped a little in his seat, and Stella wrapped one of her hands in his, making Vecchio grumble.

The newest arrival was no sexy cowboy type, that was for sure. Big, with a raw-looking face, wearing a green fur-trimmed parka, he moved up the aisle with a heavy, monster movie step. He only stared into the casket for a moment before reaching out with something small and sharp and jabbing it hard into Andreas's hand.

"Oh, gross." Ray had to hunch forward a little bit to keep his stomach from jumping out his mouth.

Vecchio was on his feet. "Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The big stranger turned and strode out of the room, ignoring everybody and banging the door behind him.

Ray dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "Jesus, what next?"

What was next was Ray's cell phone going off in his pocket, loud in the nearly empty room. Shutting off the ringer, he told Vecchio and Stella, "I gotta get out of here."

Together, the three of them left the funeral home, Ray forcing himself not to check out the cowboy one last time.

In the freezing back seat of Vecchio's Riv, Ray breathed easier. He fished the cell out of his pocket and played the message. With any luck, it would be Welsh calling to let him know the case was solved, Andreas actually died of natural causes, they found the Goat, everything was going to be normal again.

Ray had shitty luck. The message was from a woman with a clipped, precise voice. "Stanley Kowalski, this is Inspector Thatcher of the Canadian Consulate. Please drop by my office tomorrow at 0800 hours. I am anxious to discuss the matter of Andreas Volpe's death."

Ray dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, trying to block out the whole damn day. Now Canada was getting involved. If Mexico called, he was turning the phone off.

 

** _"all i know and all we had"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray missed the Goat, especially when he had to take the goddamn El to the Canadian Consulate during morning rush hour and it took forever and smelled bad and made his teeth rattle like they were going to fall out of his skull. He was late and his feet were cold and Canada had too many trees and not enough baseball. This had better be good.

Inside, the building was deserted. He poked his head in a couple of offices, then called, "Inspector Thatcher?"

A short lady, kind of tiny and old and with a helmet of steel grey hair, stuck her head out of an office he'd just checked. "May I help you?"

He felt like a kid called before the principal. "I'm looking for Inspector Thatcher."

"You would be Mr. Kowalski, then. You're late. Please step into my office." She stepped back and ushered him inside, dabbing at her red tunic with a lace handkerchief, then disappearing into a small bathroom. "Excuse me a moment. Dry cleaningwise, things are all fouled up..."

Ray sat in the guest chair and tapped his fingers on his thigh. There were a lot of plaques and flags and stuff in here. "You wanted to see me?"

"Of course." Thatcher gave up her battle against the spot and returned to the office. She sat on the other side of the desk, then turned a picture frame around so Ray could see. It showed a dark-haired woman, kind of hot in an uptight way, wearing the same soldier suit as the old lady. "Did you see this?" she asked proudly, then turned the picture around again to beam at it herself. "My daughter. A fine officer."

He was beginning to think this Mountie was unhinged or senile or something. "So why'd you call me?"

Her eyes snapped from the picture to his face, suddenly all crisp, bureaucratic authority. "You're Stanley Kowalski."

"Ray."

"Ray Kowalski?"

"Yeah."

She made a note on the paperwork in front of her. "You were Andreas Volpe's lover."

Ray really didn't want to talk about this with a woman who looked like his grandmother, God rest her soul. "Yeah."

"Well, then, Mr. Kowalski. I'm afraid you're in a great deal of danger."

He snorted. "Danger? From Canada?"

Thatcher bristled, and damn if she wasn't kind of scary when her dander was up. "No, not from Canada, although I'm afraid some of our less law-abiding citizens are almost certainly involved. First, I'd like you to take a look at some pictures and tell me if anyone looks familiar."

Ray was beginning to think he'd been dragged down here to see this crazy old lady's family album when she laid a black and white photograph on the desk between them. Looked like a surveillance photo, maybe a long-range one.

"Yeah, I saw that guy yesterday, at the memorial service. He sneezes a lot."

Thatcher nodded. "Yes, he does. That's Damon Cahill. How about this one?"

Oh, yeah. Ray remembered him. It was a grainy color shot of the sexy cowboy with the mirror. "He was there, too. What's this about?"

"Did Volpe ever mention a Sam Franklin? No? Just one more photo, please."

The last one was a mug shot of the big guy who'd stabbed Andreas's hand.

"Yeah, him too. Who are these people?"

"The man in the last photograph is Holloway Muldoon."

The leggy cowboy had the only decent name in the bunch.

"One last question. Does the name Renard mean anything to you?"

When Ray just shook his head, she asked, "Andre Renard?"

Oh, shit. He shook his head again.

Thatcher eyed him for a minute, like she was looking for a tell, then nodded and gestured to the pictures on her desk. "You are the only remaining link these men have to Renard, the man you knew as Andreas Volpe, which, I'm afraid, makes you their prime target. Your full cooperation is the only thing that may save your life."

"Cooperation with what, lady? You haven't told me what's going on."

She looked startled. "Oh, I haven't? The money, Mr. Kowalski. Renard's assets and the proceeds from the sale of his possessions."

"So? That's Andreas's money, not theirs."

"They'd certainly disagree with you on that point, as would I," she replied with a chuckle.

"You think it's their money?"

"No, Mr. Kowalski. It's Canada's money. And I'm afraid we want it back." At Ray's blank look, she continued, "Four years ago, Cahill, Muldoon, Franklin, and Renard robbed the Banque du Canada, the Bank of Canada, of approximately 2.5 million Canadian dollars--"

Ray snorted. "So, what is that? Fifty bucks American?"

Thatcher gave him a steely look Welsh would have been proud of. "Of approximately 2.5 million Canadian dollars worth of cash, bearer bonds, and a small amount of gold. Apparently, Renard double-crossed his cohorts and made off with the money. It's taken this long for Franklin, Muldoon, and Cahill to catch up to him. Now he's dead and they're still hanging around. The only explanation is that killing him did not succeed in recovering the missing money. They will now turn their attention to you."

"Oh." Ray'd suspected Andreas was a crook. He hadn't been a cop for nothing, and sex and a smooth tongue could only snow him for so long. But his doubts hadn't prepared him for the sudden weight of knowing it for sure. Andreas was a crook and a liar and Ray was an idiot. "Well, I don't have it."

"That's impossible. You're the only one who could."

He glared. "I'm sorry it's impossible. It's the truth."

Thatcher sat back and regarded him for a moment, then said, "I believe you. Unfortunately, Cahill, Franklin, and Muldoon are unlikely to."

"So?"

"So you must look for the money, Mr. Kowalski. Look just as hard and fast as you can. As ex-law enforcement and as Renard's intimate, you're in the best position to find it." She leaned forward again, fixing him with a steady stare. "Believe me, until the money is in our hands, you will not be safe."

Pulling a pad of paper towards her, Thatcher scribbled some lines on it, then tore it off and offered it to Ray. "This is my contact information. Please call me at this number day or night."

When he reached out to take the paper, she pulled it back slightly. "Do not tell anyone of this meeting, Mr. Kowalski. If our investigation is compromised it could prove fatal for both them and you. Never forget what happened to Renard."

Ray scowled and grabbed the paper. If Andreas wasn't dead already, Ray'd kick his ass.

 

** _"wouldn't it be great to never worry"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray was always horny. He knew that, it was a fact of Ray, like the car and the hair and what some people thought was an overeager temper. He was used to it. But he still wondered sometimes, after years on the job and out of the job, and in what life he'd scraped together outside the job, why his horniness didn't obey the rules. It wasn't that Ray was kinky, exactly. But he'd get sex-itchy at the wrong times. Because things sucked. Because he was pissed or scared. And he was both pissed and scared now.

He needed to fuck. He needed somebody with big shoulders and a wide mouth and a cock, somebody he could work out some of this energy on. Benton wasn't around, though, damn it.

So maybe he needed a nice, quiet, calming session of beating the ever-loving crap out of something. Too bad his gym was miles away and nowhere near his suddenly homeless and carless self. Still, he couldn't go back to the hotel, it'd just piss him off. He needed something close, something on a bus line or close enough to walk to. Something with fighting and blunt objects and a lot of screaming.

Something like Johnny's. That should work.

Ray got lucky--there was a bus, and it was running, and it only took him three tries to figure out that the #20 wasn't the same as the express, and he didn't want the express because, yeah, cold, and he didn't want to walk. Not to save six minutes, anyway. He could do this, and it wasn't like he'd never taken the bus before, even if the yellow window strips looked nothing like the stop request loops he remembered.

But he figured it all out and eventually he was standing in the doorway, watching a bunch of guys carry their gear inside, shouting insults and trading the sort of violent goodwill that always happened before a game. It had been a long time since Ray had been part of that. He'd been in a league, right after the place opened, but when they'd moved across town it was too hard and he'd gradually stopped playing. His sticks and skates and the tattered Hawks jersey were gone with the fancy suits, and he couldn't just drop into a game, not without equipment or a team.

Still, he couldn't help wandering into the proshop, just to see what they had. When the guy behind the counter asked if he was there for rat league, he ended up with new skates, new pads, two stiff jerseys, a seriously expensive helmet, and a borrowed stick from some guy named Phil who said he knew a winger when he saw one. And a bag to put everything in.

Maybe it would take his mind off of his problems. Let him work off some of this twitchy urge to kiss a guy he met at a ski resort.

Ninety minutes later, trying to wash around what were turning into pretty spectacular bruises under a very hot shower, Ray congratulated himself on an excellent plan. Not only was he tired and calm and sore, but now he owned some actual stuff, something other than a few clothes and a comb.

Maybe when he started looking for a new place to live, he'd check out the neighborhood. Sign himself up as a free agent, get into a league, start doing some of the stuff Andreas hadn't liked. Make some new friends, hang out at the bar watching the ice. Guy stuff, stuff with no consequences, honest stuff that worked up a sweat.

He was still thinking about the adrenaline rush of a great play, and not at all about sex, when he slung his bag over one shoulder and went looking for lunch. Had to be some little diner or something close enough to walk to.

As he made his way toward the exit, he ran into a familiar face, one he was pretty sure he'd glimpsed up in the stands. "Hey, Bob! Benton! You following me?"

Benton looked startled, craning his neck around like Ray was talking to someone else. He shook himself and smiled cautiously. It wasn't a bad look for him. "No! I mean, of course not. But I am delighted to see you."

Ray leered a little. What the hell. He'd had a bad day. "Yeah, it's delightful seeing you, too."

The innuendo, flirtation, whatever, sailed right over the poor schmuck's head. Painfully sincere, he asked, "How are you, Ray?"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. He did not want to have a heart to heart at Johnny's. "You know, the usual. Boyfriend got murdered, cops think I did it, the world is full of pain and suffering. You?"

"Nothing so dire." Benton licked his lip. It was a lovely sight. "Perhaps you need a distraction from the agonies of the world?"

Oh, hell yeah. He tried not to jump the guy then and there. Proprieties and all. "What do you got in mind?"

Benton said, too heartily, "How about making me vice-president in charge of cheering you up?"

God, this guy sucked at flirting. But hey, any port in a storm. Ray asked, "You free now?"

Benton's face fell. "No, I'm afraid. How about later this evening? Perhaps we could meet for dinner?"

Yeah, what the hell. Nothing like jumping into the dating game with both feet. "Meet you at seven, the Black Sheep Club on the northwest side. It's a comedy club, but tonight they've got a band. Much better than the jokes, believe me. Can you find it?"

"I'll do my best."

Damn, Benton had a good smile, even with that funky tooth. Maybe especially with the funky tooth. "See you then, Benton"

He was headed out the door, trying to remember the stupid bus schedule now that he needed to find a place to buy a suit, one that he hadn't worn to a funeral, when he realized he'd left his hat inside.

This wouldn't be a problem, it was just a hat, but for the fact that, 1) he only had one hat because all his stuff was in the back of a truck in fucking Skokie or someplace, and 2) it was cold waiting for the bus. Cold and getting colder and that's why regular people had cars, that right there, they had cars in which they drove instead of waiting for the bus in the freezing cold.

He didn't need one more reason to hate Andreas, but now he had one. He hated him because Ray never had to think about freezing to death before, and suddenly needing to think about freezing to death was probably a good reason to hate someone. Just a little. Even if there weren't a bunch of other reasons.

Jesus, he really missed his life. And his car.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) So he turned back around, went looking for the damn hat, and finally found it under a bench, stuck to a piece of gum or taffy or some other disgusting sticky blob. He was considering whether to put the stupid thing on anyway when he spotted Robert Benton headed for Stanley's. He knew it was him; the guy walked like he was all buckled up and battened down even when he wasn't dressed up.

Benton didn't seem the type to hang out in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, though. Something was queer, something besides Ray, and he really shouldn't be meeting strangers in bars, right? Ray owed it to himself to find out what the guy was up to. Plus, Benton might need somebody watching his back. Or something.

He slipped into the room while Benton was talking to the bartender and grabbed a spot at the back. Close enough to overhear the conversation, but far enough that, if he was careful, Benton and whoever he was meeting (and it was obviously a meeting, Benton had been scanning the room as he walked up to the bar) wouldn't even notice him. If they did, he could always claim to have had a sudden urge for cheese fries.

Everybody got cheese fry cravings. It was a perfectly good excuse.

Ray grabbed a menu and slid down in his seat, watching Benton's back. The girl behind the bar obviously wanted him to stick around and chat, but he finally walked away and took a table next to the glass, facing the door. Ray saw the other guy come in. Tall, light brown hair, one of those open expressions that just guaranteed that he'd get ripped off by some old lady with a pyramid scheme. Oh, and crutches. Which he promptly used to trip two waitresses, a busboy, and Brett Lebda, and that was just on the way to the table. He smacked the bartender in the nose when he turned away and waved to Benton. Ray wasn't sure that was physically possible, and he'd seen it with his own eyes.

"Sorry, sir. I can't seem to get the hang of these things." Maybe this was the guy Benton had mentioned, the one he didn't belong to. Didn't look much like a wolf, but then Andreas didn't look like a guy named Renard. Calling him _Sir,_ was that some sort of role-play thing?

"You'll be off them soon enough, I hope." Fraser's voice didn't sound like he'd ever slept with the guy, either. This could be an ordinary meeting. In secret. In a bar. Between two guys drinking what looked like tea. One of those kind of regular meetings.

"And I do regret disturbing your vacation. Really, I can't believe this happened. Somehow this sort of thing always happens to me." Ray hoped it was some kind of pain medication causing all that whining.

"It wasn't much of a vacation. And I was nearby, so I merely rescheduled my return." Benton sounded so reasonable. In Ray's experience, reasonable people turned out to be the ones who ended up in Interview Three, trying to explain how it was that the bodies were in their basement but they didn't know what happened.

"But now you're involved in this horrible fracas, and it was supposed to be me, and what if something goes wrong? I could never forgive myself!" Crutches looked ready to cry. Ray didn't want to watch that, but if he tried to leave now, Benton would spot him for sure. And then maybe bury him in the basement. He should've asked about the basement before the guy checked him into a hotel.

From the way Benton's shoulders tensed, he didn't want to see a meltdown, either. No way was this the boyfriend or whatever he had. "Turnbull, it's all right, honestly. It isn't your fault; I'm sure no one else would have seen that bus coming." Crutches sniffled a little, but he nodded. "Now, I won't be able to call while I'm...well, engaged. So you'll stay, make sure he's behaving properly? No junk food, remember. I'll go running with him when I'm finished with this."

"Oh, of course. I'll take very good care of him. I mean, we'll take very good care of each other." Crutches wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. Crisis averted.

"No doughnuts, no chocolate. And don't let him tell you any differently, he doesn't get such things at home."

"Right you are, sir. Would you like to stop by and tell him goodbye?"

Benton looked at his watch. "No, I don't think that's a good idea. I still need to get ready for my evening out with Ray."

"I see. Then I'll tell him you said hello, and that you'll call when you have a chance, shall I?" This didn't sound like Benton's boyfriend. It sounded more like he had a kid or something.

Ray liked kids. Well, not Frannie, who was the only kid he personally spent any time with. But she was the exception, not the rule. He was sure he'd like other kids if he met them. Kids who spent time with Benton were probably well-behaved and polite and not the sort of rugrats who would shoot an unarmed man in the eye with a squirt gun. He was willing to try liking that sort of kid. He liked dogs better, but kids couldn't be that different.

When Ray looked back over, the table was empty. Maybe Crutches just needed practice.

 

** _"the night's like coffee to my tongue"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray didn't see Benton when he got to the Black Sheep, so he ordered himself a drink and snagged an empty booth. Dewey, one of the ex-cops who ran the place, had given him ten kinds of shit when he'd hooked up with Andreas, and Ray'd quit coming here until Vecchio dragged him back. Now they had a kind of a truce, and the place had some surprisingly good music on the nights they could pry Dewey off the stage.

When Benton arrived, almost every head in the place swiveled in his direction. The man made plaid and denim look like whipped cream with a cherry on top. And that leather jacket should be illegal. Ray waved him over.

"Trouble finding the place?"

"No, no trouble. I'm more comfortable navigating wilderness than cities, but I've found passersby to be most accommodating."

Ray snorted. "I bet."

Benton let that pass and ordered a ginger ale from a waitress Ray'd never seen actually wait on a table before.

"So, where're you from that they've not got cities?"

If Ray'd been concerned about what they'd have to talk about, he needn't have worried. Benton lit up when talking about the Northern Areas, about the land and the people, and he just smiled when Ray made his tired joke about nature giving him hives. The stories didn't make any sense, but watching Benton be all animated and happy was the best distraction Ray'd had in days.

He was kind of zoning out, watching Benton's mouth, when that mouth said, "I'm sorry, Ray. I've been monopolizing the conversation. How are you coping?"

Ray opened his mouth to make a joke or change the topic, and instead heard himself say, "My life is kind of fucked right now. Should've left Andreas a long time ago."

Benton tilted his head a little, watching him, and said, carefully, "I hope it's not overly inquisitive of me, but I don't quite understand your relationship with Mr. Volpe. He was involved in criminal activities?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

The waitress brought them both a refill, and Benton politely ignored the look she gave him. Ray took a long sip, then started the story. "I was a cop for ten years. Fell out with my parents over it; my dad hated the idea, wanted me to do something more civilized. He let me keep the car we'd restored together, but he and my mom up and moved to Arizona and I haven't heard from them in years. Stella and Vecchio, they're the closest thing to a family I've got. I dated some, mostly women, but nothing ever worked out. I don't know. I always liked guys, too, but I wanted kids, the works."

Ray paused, waited for Benton to say something about his mystery kid, but he didn't say a word. "Then I met Andreas, and it was..." He grinned ruefully. "It was sizzle. Smash, bang, fireworks. We worked, we clicked, we had a groove. We went to Mexico together, real early on. Dumb idea, you know? Fly off to Mexico with somebody you barely know. But it was really good. So when I started getting shit on the job, when other cops started looking real close at Andreas's business, I figured it was a queer thing, right? And it probably was, at least some of it. So I'm getting harassed at work and he's getting hassled and I snapped. Went off in the bullpen, told them to shove the badge where the sun don't shine, and I quit."

He stopped for another swallow of his drink. He'd never had to tell the story whole like this before. It made him feel like the worst kind of idiot, but Benton looked way more understanding than somebody that squeaky clean should. "I'm sorry, Ray. I've had experiences that, while very different in the details, raised some of the same issues of divided loyalties. In particular, loyalties involving loved ones."

Ray looked at Benton, trying to figure him out. Beautiful, earnest, mysterious secret kid-having, way too understanding. After a minute he realized that they were just staring at each other, and he'd never replied. Those were some nice eyes.

"Yeah, well." This was hard. "Now I don't know if it was ever love. I thought it was, but maybe it was just relief. Finally being out, really out. Not being alone anymore, you know?" When Benton nodded, he continued, "So I'm living with Andreas and he ends up paying for almost everything, even though my old lieutenant hired me back as a civilian interpreter for interviews, interrogations, that kind of thing."

Benton raised an eyebrow and Ray grinned. "Yeah. French, Spanish, some Polish, not that we need it much. Wouldn't know it to hear me talk English, would you?"

"On the contrary, you seem to have a unique facility with the language."

That didn't seem to be a dig, but Ray narrowed his eyes at him, just in case. "And things just went downhill from there. The groove was shot, don't know if it was ever anything more than sex. Andreas was keeping weird hours, acting paranoid, acting like I was his fucking boytoy, and I'm beginning to think I fell for a con. I can't go back to what I was before him, but I'm getting ready to move out when this happens. And this is a world of shit, believe you me."

The band started up, and it got harder to talk. Ray'd had enough with the soul-baring; he wasn't about to start yelling his confessions. Ray was watching the small crowd of dancers, tapping his fingers to the beat, when Benton said, "Feel free to ask somebody to dance, Ray."

Ray cased the room. A few couples dancing, one guy doing his thing solo. Some chicks by the bar he might have some luck with. One very strange, very beautiful man sitting across the table. He slid out of the booth and reached out a hand to Benton. "Dance with me?"

He looked alarmed, more freaked out that Ray'd seen him yet, and Ray dropped his hand. "No, that's cool. Sorry."

Standing, Benton said, "I'd be honored."

Benton's hesitation made sense once they hit the dance floor. He stood there like a totem pole or something, swaying a little from side to side. Ray laughed and grabbed his hands, pulling them around his neck. "Come on, buddy. Relax."

It wasn't much, just standing and swaying, but Benton's sides felt good under his hands, soft flannel and strong muscles. Ray hummed a little and pulled him closer. Benton was moving better now, comfortable in Ray's arms. Ray closed his eyes and focused on the easy motion, the feel of Benton's body, the musky fresh smell of his shirt and his skin. He realized that he was holding Benton too close, and he loosened his grip, giving Benton the chance to pull away. Instead, Benton grasped the back of Ray's neck with his hand, rubbing Ray's skin with his thumb, and kept moving.

Ray stepped things up a bit, leading Benton into a couple of actual steps, and Benton was right there with him, like he was reading his mind. His hands slipped down to Benton's jeans, pulling him close until they were touching, and lost himself in it.

They were good together. Just doing this simple thing.

When the band wound down the number and announced a quick break, Ray found himself plastered against Benton, half-hard and suddenly self-conscious. Benton's eyes were hazy, just a little unfocused, and he blinked at Ray as if just waking up.

Ray stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I, uh. Bathroom," he said, then spun in that direction.

He only made it a couple of steps, head down and his mind busy elsewhere, before the little guy was right there, getting up in Ray's personal space and saying his name. It took Ray a second to recognize the first creep from the funeral, the one named Cahill.

"What do you want?" Ray snarled, slipping into ass-kicking mode.

"Didn't Andre tell you, Mr. Kowalski?" The guy was like a creepy bird, like the stuffed ones in that movie. He cocked his head and peered at Ray, his face twisted into a sneer.

"Tell me what?" Ray shook his arms out and used his height advantage.

Cahill didn't flinch, actually stepped closer. "It doesn't belong to you, Mr. Kowalski. You do know that, don't you?"

"I don't know anything." Damn, that didn't come out right.

"Mr. Kowalski," Cahill continued, "any morning now you could wake up dead."

"That's an intriguing concept." Benton stepped in like they were having a civilized conversation. "While, logically, waking up dead should be a contradiction in terms, there is some fascinating folklore..."

"Benton." Ray snapped, as Cahill faded into the crowd. "Not now."

"Understood."

Ray ignored Benton's questioning look and sent him to the bar to settle their tab, forking over some cash when he made embarrassed sounds about Canadian funds.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) In the bathroom, Ray splashed water on his face, then braced his arms on either side of the sink, trying to calm down. When he looked up, there was another face in the mirror. The cowboy, Franklin, standing right there behind him, way inside his personal space.

"Not easy, is it." Yeah, that was the same voice. Nice.

"Huh?" Ray's brain hadn't quite caught up with the situation, but his dick understood just fine. All the lust he'd built up dancing came rushing back. His thoughts went with it, headed below his belt.

"Finding yourself in this sticky situation. Nowhere to turn. Seems like you'd be wanting a friendly face, a helping hand." Franklin put his helping hand right on Ray's hip. Not subtle, but Ray'd never been a big fan of subtle.

"Yeah? And what do you want?" When in doubt, stick with belligerence.

"You know what I want." Franklin pulled Ray's hip back a bit, leaning in against his ass.

Ray cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice even. "I don't have it."

"Sure you do. And you'd do better to give it to me, Ray."

Ray twisted around to face him, leaning his ass against the sink. He was tired of being horny and confused and freaked out and he really wished he didn't want to fuck this guy. "What are you people, deaf? I don't have it, exclamation mark."

Franklin stepped forward, crowding Ray into the sink. "Sweetheart, I know you're tough and Lord knows you're pretty, but you're in over your head."

"I don't have it." The words were barely out of his mouth before Franklin kissed him. It was a good kiss, firm and confident and Ray's cock did not share any of his doubts about the situation. Ray shoved him away and repeated, "I don't have it."

Franklin looked into his eyes. "Darlin', this is my big payoff, and I'm going to get what's coming to me. The clock is ticking." Then he patted Ray's cheek and headed out the door, banging it shut behind him.

Ray turned back to the sink and splashed some more cold water over his face and head, shivering as it ran in wet rivulets down his neck. Scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, he stared at himself in the mirror. "Repeat after me: Don't kiss guys you don't trust. Don't fuck criminals."

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) When Benton came through the door and found him there, Ray felt a weird wave of relief. Benton was a freak, but Ray could trust him. He was pretty sure.

He didn't say anything. Just grabbed his coat out of Benton's hands and put it on, headed out into the cold night and started walking away. He needed to think, needed to figure this all out, and he couldn't do it while he was thinking of dancing with Benton, or Tex leaning over him, or that little weasel Cahill, who was getting creepier by the minute. He shrugged into his collar and stuck his hands in his pockets. Needed to buy some gloves.

Benton stopped him with a hand on his arm. Ray tried not to lean into the touch, but he didn't quite manage it. "You've been quiet since we left the club. What's going on?"

Ray shook himself and started walking. "I don't think you want to know. And even if you do, I don't think I'm supposed to tell you."

He could hear the confusion in Benton's voice. Or maybe it was concern. "I don't understand."

Ray scratched at his neck, trying to come up with a story that didn't sound crazy. "He said that if I told anybody--and I gotta include you in that--it could be fatal for them and for me."

"Who said?"

It was funny, if you left out the dead parts. "That's what I'm not supposed to say. Convenient, huh?"

Benton put a hand on his shoulder. "That's quite enough of this nonsense. If you're in some sort of trouble, I want to know about it."

Ray stopped chuckling and knocked his hand away. "Back off. I don't need you bullying me."

"I wasn't--"

"You were. You called it nonsense, and it isn't. Being murdered in cold blood isn't nonsense. Wait until it happens to you sometime."

Benton looked ready to snap back at him, but he suddenly twitched and looked over Ray's shoulder. He turned away and started walking, muttering under his breath. "Yes, of course I realize that you know all about it. That doesn't mean I want your advice. Now is not the time."

So that was the end of that. Ray flagged down a cab and spent the ride back to his hotel trying not to think about his chances of sleeping through the night. Benton sat next to him, but his jaw was clenched and it was pretty clear he didn't want to answer any questions about his nutty conversational habits.

When Benton automatically followed him into the hotel, he thought the evening might not be a total bust. They both relaxed a little as they waited for the elevator. Benton insisted on letting everybody and their mother get on first, but eventually they managed to get into a car. Ray smacked at the door close button a couple of times, and ignored Benton's visible exasperation when they finally shut in front of some little punk with a backpack. He hit the button for the fifteenth floor and turned around to lean back against Benton's chest. It was comfortable. Solid. Damn it, he _liked_ Benton. And he was horny. And he needed a distraction. "This is good place for making friends, isn't it?"

Benton's hands shifted at his sides, but he didn't back away. Instead, he cleared his throat. "You said earlier that Mr. Volpe was mixed up in something."

Benton needed to get with the program. Ray slid himself back against Benton's hips and the growing evidence that he was getting somewhere. "Don't have to ask if you find me attractive, huh?"

That earned him a gasp, but Benton was stubborn. "What was it?"

Ray slid his hands down to grasp Benton's. "What was what?"

Benton stepped back, and Ray nearly fell over. "What Mr. Volpe was involved in."

He straightened and spun, pinning Benton up against the wall with his hand. "Look, I know it's asking you to to stretch your imagination, but can't you pretend for a minute that I'm a man and you're a--"

"Ray, I believe this is important."

He ground their hips together. "What, this?"

"No, our conversation." Benton flushed. "That is, the conversation we haven't yet had. The one about Mr. Volpe."

Ray leaned in and kissed him. Benton kissed back. Ray slid his cheek along Benton's and whispered in his ear. "I don't want to have that conversation."

"I'm beginning to realize that. Nonetheless--" That was the same sort of tone Stella always got before she started lecturing.

Maybe this was hopeless. Maybe the guy was straight. Right. And maybe Ray was Italian. "No, see, you're not getting it. We went out, I bought you ginger ale, we danced, we shared a cab, we're alone in an elevator. There's a way this is supposed to go."

Benton stared at him. "Oh? And how is that?"

"Like this. 'Ray, may I trouble you for a cup of tea?' 'It's kinda late, man.' 'Perhaps a glass of water, then.' 'Promise you won't make any moves on me.' 'Unfortunately, Ray, I cannot make a promise that I don't feel equipped to keep.'" Ray wiggled his eyebrows, which wasn't his most seductive look, but usually worked well enough.

Benton was staring at him like he was some sort of alien. "I suspect your parents may have dropped you on your head as an infant. Or it could be a case of oxygen deprivation. Have you ever narrowly avoided drowning?"

Oh, this was really too much. Ray stomped out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, Benton following at a safe distance. "How would you like a kick in the head? I may be damaged, but I'm not stupid."

"Then stop acting as if you are. If you're in some kind of trouble, I'd like to hear about it. Otherwise, it's growing late, and I have a perfectly serviceable cot waiting for me."

Well, when you put it that way it sounded like a good plan. Dull, but reasonable. He stopped to study Benton, from the top of his perfectly arranged hair to his way-too-shiny-loafers. "You know what's wrong with you?"

Benton looked ready for a pretty long list. "What?"

"Nothing." Ray sighed. "Freak. See you in the morning."

Benton smiled. "Good night, Ray." He turned and headed back to the elevator. Ray shrugged and headed for his hotel room. Maybe he'd be able to get some sleep. Or maybe he'd lay awake all night, wondering when his life turned into such a mess. Either way, looked like he be doing it alone. He didn't do well with alone.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) The door opened on the third try, and while Ray was busy trying to get the little card back in his wallet somebody shoved him up against the wall. He acted on instinct, grabbing the guy by the arm and shouting for Benton when the intruder tried to push past. Ray got in a few good hits with his other hand, then got a fist to the face for his trouble. The back of his head hit the door frame and he slid to the floor. He watched an unforgettable green coat disappear as he sat there, trying to make sure his head was still attached. Attached. What the hell was he holding? It looked like a fucking arm. With a claw or something stuck on the end.

Okay, this was officially too damn weird. Ray closed his eyes and sighed. Jesus, when one of the guys who wants to kill you has a hand like a Bond villain, somebody should fucking tell you ahead of time. Plus, he'd just lost a fight with a one-armed man. Ray and Harrison Ford, they were some sort of super-weirdness matched set. He let his head thunk against the wall.

Benton stuck his head in to make sure he was thoroughly humiliated. "Ray? Are you all right?"

"I think I sprained my pride."

Benton didn't waste any time, kneeling down and running his hands over a bunch of places that Ray'd been hoping would see some action in the elevator. Ray's dick seemed to think it was more like a proposal than a check for broken bones, but that didn't make the bruises hurt any less. Apparently satisfied, Benton started wandering around the room and crossed over to the open window.

Hopefully he wasn't planning to do anything stupid. "Looked like Muldoon. Either that or a Mack truck dressed as a Christmas tree."

Benton licked the window frame. "He exited through this window."

No way licking could tell him that. "I almost had him." He held up Muldoon's hand-thing as supporting evidence.

Benton paused with his foot on the sill. He came back, took the hand (which was just fine, because Ray didn't know what he was supposed to do with it. It wasn't like he could go after Muldoon and give it back) and said in a suicidally cheerful tone of voice, "Lock the window and the door. Don't let anyone in but me. I'll be back as soon as I can." So that would be a 'hell, yes' on the stupid plans question.

Wasn't there a rule somewhere against trusting strangers? Still, it wasn't like his night could get any worse. "Hey. Be careful."

Benton gave him a long look. "I could say the same to you." He disappeared out the window.

Ray waited almost forty-five seconds before he climbed out on the ledge to follow. No way was he getting left behind to wait while Benton went chasing after some lunatic in the world's ugliest parka.

Standing on a really fucking narrow ledge, he started to rethink the plan. Ray had never been afraid of heights, but that didn't mean he had any intention of looking down. Fifteen stories was a lot, and he could almost hear Benton's voice in his head, talking about how he wouldn't be dead from splattering all over Michigan Avenue. That the fall was enough.

The Benton in his head was a pain in the ass. And what kind of hotel had windows that opened on the fifteenth floor, anyway?

As Ray crawled along the ledge between balconies, checking for Benton at each open window, he heard a muffled conversation inside one of the rooms. A man's voice muttered, "What is it now, Elaine?" and a plaintive reply, "It's happened again. Another strange man peered in the window at me and then went away."

He made it to the next balcony as her companion answered. "Bad luck, Elaine." Hearing a different set of voices, he flopped over the edge of a railing and sprawled under a window. Cahill's nasal whine drifted out. Bingo.

"That was stupid, Muldoon. Really stupid."

A familiar drawl answered. "And then some. If you'd told us you were going, we could have kept them busy. But walking in like that, you were asking for it. You're lucky he didn't kick your tokhes, instead of just trying to shake your hand."

Benton's voice nearly startled Ray off the balcony. "He's right, Muldoon. You didn't leave me much room to convince him. Here's your prosthetic back, by the way."

Ray banged his head against the wall. So he'd picked another winner. He missed whatever was said next, but Benton's voice came through clearly. "How could I get the money with your interference? I'm capable of handling it alone, and Ray trusts me. You need to let me convince him. If he has it, I'll find out."

Cahill's voice cut in. "We took the chances. It's our money."

"No need to be un-neighborly." Franklin again. "Don't forget that he did us a favor. He took care of Andreas for us."

Benton said, perfectly politely, "I did nothing of the sort. I have no idea who killed Volpe." He paused, and Ray could imagine the disbelieving looks from Cahill and the others. "And don't forget, your share is nothing without my help. While you decide, perhaps whichever of you has the room next to Ray would be kind enough to give me your key?"

After a moment, Cahill muttered, "Another twenty-four hours can't hurt."

Franklin echoed him. "Not after all these years."

"It comes out of your share. Not mine." A door slammed. So Muldoon wasn't happy. Big surprise.

Silence for a moment. Ray stood up, but hesitated when Franklin spoke. "I've got the room next door. But if you do find the money, you won't forget to tell us, will you? Because Cahill, he worries. And he's even meaner than Muldoon."

Ray had heard enough. He climbed back across the balconies to his own room and crawled in the window. Safe inside, he took a few shuddering breaths, trying to make sense of what he'd heard.

Damn, but he missed being a cop. Back then, he had resources. He could have just run them all in, and let somebody else sort out the details. Now, he just had himself. He needed to find the missing money, needed to get these goons off his back. So he needed to think.

Benton. Benton was mixed up in this. Ray hit himself in the forehead, which hurt. Another pretty-mouthed liar. Somebody out there hated him.

Okay, he could handle it. He was good at this. He'd play along, play Benton before Benton could play him.

It seemed like a good idea, a plan that would keep him from getting any more caught up in this mess. Ray decided to celebrate his new plan. He grabbed the bottle of scotch out of his gym bag. If this was his life now, he was going to get quietly and thoroughly drunk. He had nobody to trust, not even the one guy he wanted to believe, and that called for a drink. A big drink, and then maybe some little drinks to keep it company.

He poured himself a glass, gulped it down, and sprawled in the chair. He wasn't thinking about Benton, he was planning. He was a suddenly single guy, with no apartment and a part-time job and a craving for a weird guy who licked things and jumped out windows and lied to him. Great.

He had another drink, a double. It was good scotch. Better than that shit at the bar, anyway. Not that he'd noticed the drinks, what with getting his arms around Benton and finding out that, for whatever he said, the guy was definitely interested.

Ray wasn't thinking about that.

So what next? Right now, he was stuck in his room, his head hurt, the porn channel was pay-per-view, and there was too much furniture for dancing. He tossed back another drink or three, and shuffled over to the bed to lie down.

Ray stared at the ceiling, waiting for an answer to appear, until it started to do that shifty thing that came right before the spinning. He swallowed some more, right out of the bottle, because it was his bottle and he could drink out of it if he wanted to. And he wanted to. So there.

Fucking Benton. Jumping out the window, flashing his hot ass and bye-bye. Keeping secrets. Keeping really fucking big secrets and not even blinking an eye when he did. Typical. Ray wanted to hold him down, pin him in one place and find out just what was inside that pretty shell. Guy probably starched his underwear.

He was probably all stiff and buttoned down until he got naked. Then he was just stiff. Ray snickered. He was a funny, funny guy. The Duck Boys should hire him.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) He'd get Benton out of his uptight clothes, strip him down and make him needy. Ray closed his eyes. That would be good; one perfect place where things weren't fucked up and spiraling out of control. Just a bed and Benton. If he got that, he bet he could shut the guy up and open him up and lick him up... Yeah. He liked that thought.

Moving carefully, Ray set the bottle down by the side of the bed and flopped back. Would Benton be shy? Some sort of repressed sexual animal? Maybe he'd need to be held down, Ray's hands on his wrists... Ray slid his hand down his chest and popped the buttons on his jeans, then reached in to touch himself, just drawing his fingers along his almost-erection. It surged a little at the touch, and Ray drew it out, got more comfortable on the bed with his knees bent and spread.

His jeans were too tight. His shirt was itchy. He stripped out of everything and threw it all in the corner. Naked was better.

His hand stroking and pulling, Ray went back to the fantasy. Benton's ass. His broad shoulders and strong back. His pretty, pretty skin. Ray wanted to see him face down on the bed, naked, just for him. Lying there, hands clenched above his head, fingers wound through the headboard, waiting for Ray to push inside him.

Or on his back, stroking himself. Running slick fingers over his cock, pushing them back, back behind his balls and circling, ready for more. Watching Ray, eyes hazy, waiting for permission. Biting his lip as he pushed his hips up and stroked inside, stretching himself for Ray. Eyes closing as he jerked from the pressure of Ray's hand closing over his dick and pulling gently, sliding over hot skin as he leaned in to taste.

Moans, there would be moans, sexy little gasps as Ray ran his tongue over the tip and sucked carefully. He would sigh as Ray pushed his hands away and replaced Benton's fingers with his own, pushing in fast and sucking him hard and deep as Benton surged against his lips and begged for more.

He would definitely beg. Beg Ray to stop, beg him to slow down, beg him to fuck him hard.

Ray would lick along Benton's dick while he considered it, stroking into his ass and watching as Benton tried to fuck his mouth and fuck himself on Ray's fingers at the same time. Drawing it out, waiting as Benton got closer and closer, watching as Benton tried to lock himself down and keep control, as he failed to hold himself still.

Finally, as Benton started to thrash on the pillow, moaning and gasping, he'd stop. Pull free, ignore Benton's groans and the clench of his ass. Before Benton had a chance to complain he'd settle between those strong thighs and drive in, one smooth motion that would make him grab at Ray's shoulders and throw his head back, keening.

And it would be hot, and slick, and so tight that Ray would have to squeeze his eyes shut and bite his cheek to keep from coming. He'd be inside Benton, and there'd be no defenses, nothing between them, nothing but the heat and the urge to fuck hard, shove himself inside and make Benton admit that Ray deserved the truth.

Ray thought he heard a click from the window, but he was too busy coming to care. When he finally opened his eyes, there was still no sign of Benton. Bastard. Ray hoped he never saw him again.

The good thing about fantasies was that nobody had to sleep in the wet spot. Ray wiped his hand on the sheet, turned over, and fell asleep.

 

** _"trouble is i believed in you"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) He woke with a start, Benton's face hovering only inches above his own. "What the hell? How'd you get in here?"

Benton ducked under his flailing arms and tucked the covers back under Ray's chin without looking. "I came in through the window. You left it unlocked."

He couldn't remember that part. "Oh. Well, don't do that again."

"Don't come in through your window?"

"No. I mean, yeah. I mean, don't wake me up like that. And no more climbing in windows. Or jumping out of them. No windows. Windows are not buddies." That had made more sense in his head. "Oh, forget it."

Benton nodded, which made Ray's eyes hurt. "Understood. I was attempting to be helpful. I thought you might appreciate a cup of coffee. And your Lieutenant telephoned and asked that you--well, he wasn't entirely clear, and I'm not familiar with the colloquialisms, but I believe he requested your immediate presence at your place of employment."

Left a what? Oh, Welsh. Ray could guess what he'd actually said, and it wasn't nearly as polite as Fraser made it sound. He'd call back and remind Welsh that he still had a day of vacation time left. "Right, yeah. Thanks." Ray took a sip of the coffee. Chocolate and sugar. Better than the stuff Andreas's fancy espresso machine kicked out. "This is good."

Benton looked pleased. "There's a coffee shop only a few blocks from here. My partner enjoys their baked goods."

His head hurt like a train wreck, but the coffee was helping. A little. Enough that he remembered the other reason he was pissed at Benton. He knew those guys, the ones who wanted Ray dead. That was the sort of thing that should have come up at some point, right? Ray gave him a chance to come clean. "I gotta ask you something."

Benton didn't quite back away, but he looked ready to bolt. "Of course, Ray. You can ask me whatever you like."

It was a bad idea to try sitting up. He took another sip of coffee instead, trying to word it in a way that didn't give anything away. "So, what is it you do again?"

Benton straightened and looked out the window. "I'm a liaison. Of sorts. I work with other parties in my," he rubbed at his eyebrow, "line of business."

"Business." Ray squinted up at Benton, who was backing away a little. "And what business might that be? Something I should know about?"

"Well, it's rather related to your own occupation."

Ray didn't believe that for a second. No way a guy who chatted with Larry, Moe, and Stumpy down the hall was on the side of sweetness and light. "Related how? Related as in you're a cop?"

"Not exactly." Ray snorted, but waved Benton on. This should be interesting. "It is connected to law enforcement, although I have no official standing as an officer of the law here in Chicago."

"You think I should go to the cops with this whole mess?"

That got a quick nod, but the answer didn't sound so clear. "I suppose that's your decision, Ray. I'll certainly support whatever you choose. However, should you wish to attempt to resolve things yourself, I could be of some assistance."

Ray shook his head. Benton hadn't really said he _wasn't_ working with the other guys. And Ray couldn't ask him directly. However much he shouldn't, he wanted to be able to rely on Benton to back him up. At least for the moment. It had to count for something that he hadn't told Ray not to go to the police.

He swallowed the last of the coffee and squinted at where Benton stood in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back. "Perhaps if we reviewed events it might jog your memory."

Right. Sure. "So far? My boyfriend's dead, all my stuff's gone, and I'm out of a place to live. Plus, there are people trying to kill me and my boss is pissed at me for something I didn't even do. Oh, and I can't trust anybody." Benton continued to stare out into the street. "Not even you."

It had begun to rain, grey drizzles sliding down the window. Ray shivered. Benton's voice sounded tight as he replied, "Go on."

Ray threw his arm across his face. "That's all."

Benton's voice cut through his attempts to sleep off a nasty headache. "No, it isn't. Where's the money?"

Oh, that was rich. Like he wasn't going to run straight to the bad guys and tell them. Where did Benton get off grilling him about this shit? "I don't know. Why would I know that? And why should I tell you if I did? I don't even know who you are."

No answer. Ray half expected to hear the door slam shut behind him, but instead the bed dipped and his hand was pulled away from his face. It was too fucking bright in this room. Made his eyes water.

Benton was staring at him intently. "You know who I am. I want to help. You must know where the money is."

"No, I don't. I don't know where it is. I know those men killed Andreas to get it, but he must not have had it with him." He pulled his hand out of Benton's grasp and struggled to sit up. Damn, this was going to suck later.

Benton shifted away slightly, but he didn't stand up. "So they think he left it with you."

Ray rubbed his hands through his hair. "But he didn't. I've looked. I've looked everywhere." He glared at Benton. "And if I don't find it, somebody's going to kill me. One of them, maybe. Or somebody else."

Benton grabbed his hand again. He looked suddenly fierce. Ray hoped he never did anything to piss him off, because he suspected that Benton would do just about anything to get back at somebody who hurt him. "No they won't. I won't let them."

He knew he shouldn't trust Benton. As long as he remembered that, he'd be fine. "So you'll help me?" He tried to look like he meant it. "You're the only one I…" Ray choked on the words. "You're the only one I can trust."

Benton's face cleared. "Of course I'll help. I told you I would, and I keep my word. Now, what shall we do next? Perhaps you'd like to visit the police station?"

He tried one last time to get a straight answer. "You've got to promise me something. Promise you'll never lie the way Andreas did. You don't need to lie to me. Why do people think they need to lie?"

Benton jumped off the bed like he'd been burnt. By the time he spoke, he was halfway to the door. "Perhaps--" He cleared his throat. "Perhaps it's because they want something. And they're afraid the truth won't get it for them."

That was as close to an admission as he was going to get. Anything more and Benton would be out in the hall. But he couldn't resist. He climbed out of bed, wrapping the sheet around his waist. "Do you tell lies?"

Benton looked stricken. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out. Ray walked closer, getting up in his personal space. "Well?"

They both jumped when the phone rang. Ray swore and grabbed for it. "What?"

A gruff voice answered him. "Kowalski? It's me. Remember me? The guy who was in your room last night?"

"What do you want?"

Benton put his hand on Ray's back and whispered in his ear. "Who is it?"

Ray closed his eyes at the warmth against his spine. He covered the receiver and pulled away before he answered. "The guy I had the fight with. Muldoon." Benton stared at him for a long moment.

From the phone, a voice broke in. "Is MacKenzie with you?"

Ray turned toward the window. "Who?"

"The guy who followed me, mister. MacKenzie. That's his name. What's wrong, is he still there?"

Ray could feel Benton's eyes burning into his back. "Yeah. That's right."

Benton interrupted. "What is it, Ray? What's he saying?"

Stepping further away, Ray shook his head as Muldoon kept talking. "Don't trust him. Don't tell him anything. He's after the money." The phone clicked, and Ray was left with a dial tone. And a guy whose name wasn't Benton. He hung up the phone, trying to think of something to say that would get Benton out of the room without suspecting anything.

"What did he say?" Benton looked worried.

Ray didn't quite lie. "He said if I didn't give him the money, he'll kill me."

Benton rubbed his eyebrow, which was turning into a habit. "Such threats are rarely carried out."

Ray hesitated. "I believe what he said."

Benton stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Ray's waist. "They're trying to scare you."

He didn't pull away. "How do you know what they're doing? Do you know them?"

"I don't know what they have planned. But as long as they think you have the money, or know where it is, or have it without knowing where it is, or don't even know you have it--"

He interrupted before Benton got too wound up. "What are you talking about?"

One calloused hand slid up into Ray's hair. "You mustn't let what he said bother you. It was only words."

Ray put his head down on Benton--on MacKenzie's--shoulder. "Words can hurt. They can get people killed."

Benton pulled his head up and rested their foreheads together. They stood there a long time. He finally spoke. "You need to get ready and go in. I'll see you tonight."

Ray closed his eyes and breathed in, trying to memorize this moment for when things got bad. "Don't put yourself out. I can take care of myself."

Neither of them really believed him. "I'm on your side. Remember that."

He didn't bother to hide the bitterness in his voice. "Yeah. I'll remember that. No problem."

Benton pulled away and headed for the connecting door. "If I might make a suggestion? Get dressed in the closet. And if you need me--for any reason--just bang on the wall. I'll be next door."

He waved at the closing door as he dug through his duffle for something that wasn't too wrinkled to wear. "Yeah, I know."

As soon as the door clicked shut he grabbed for the phone. An annoyed voice answered on the first ring. Ray started talking.

"Thatcher? That you? Something's weird. There's this guy, he's involved somehow. Says his name is Robert Benton. But it's not, it's MacKenzie. Or, Muldoon says it's MacKenzie, but Muldoon doesn't need to lie, so why would he make something like that up?" Ray took a deep breath. "Thatcher? Hey, you still with me here?"

There was a long silence on the other end. "I don't know who this Mr. MacKenzie is, but it's entirely possible that we were mistaken regarding Andreas Volpe's killer."

Oh, fantastic. He'd been making out with a murderer. Well, maybe. The whole situation was strange, but Benton didn't seem like the kind of guy who moonlighted as a hit man. Then again, Ray's judgment about men wasn't as good as he thought it was when he woke up two days ago. "You mean he might have...look, Thatcher, I won't do this. I'm catching the next plane to Phoenix. I'm not going to sit here like a mook and wait for someone to come run me through a wood chipper."

Ray grabbed his duffle bag off the table and started throwing things in. Thatcher's voice broke into his frantic packing. "Where are you now? Before you do anything rash, can you meet me?"

It wasn't as if Benton was going to kill him right now. The guy was probably asleep after his busy night. "Yeah, sure. Where at?"

Thatcher sounded relieved. "Perhaps at Merchandise Mart? Kinzie and Wells."

"Fine. Give me twenty minutes. I've got to catch a train."

Ray picked up his wallet and stuck the phone back in his pocket. He'd finish the packing later. One last look at the possibly homicidal hunk next door, and he'd be ready.

Ray took out his credit card and quietly opened the door on his side. He slid the card between Benton's door and the jamb, feeling the lock pop loose. Ray waited, but it seemed like Benton hadn't heard anything either. He nudged the door open a crack and slid up next to it, checking out the slice of the room he could see from the floor.

Benton - no, MacKenzie - was standing next to the armchair, staring out the window and talking to himself. Weird. Suddenly, he turned away from the window and started pulling off his jacket. Ray ducked out of sight, but after a few seconds he figured the guy hadn't noticed the door. He leaned back just in time to hear MacKenzie's voice. "No, I don't think it's any business of yours."

Who was in there with him? Ray didn't see anybody else, and he didn't hear a response. From the sound of it, MacKenzie did. "I never promised that. Why should I? It's not as if you'd even care."

Okay. This was seriously hinky. Maybe he was wearing one of those headset things? Ray didn't see an earpiece, but it could be really small. "Well, that's just fine for you. But I've still got a choice to make, don't I? He's going to find out the truth eventually." MacKenzie paused. "I'm focusing on the job well enough. And stop calling him that." Another pause. "I'm not going to make a habit of this. It's necessary."

MacKenzie turned and pulled a pistol out of the nightstand. No earpiece on that side, either. And fuck, he was carrying? This was not good. Armed strangers with delusions. Ray's dating track record was actually getting worse, which he hadn't thought possible. "Two is not a pattern." MacKenzie was starting to sound pissed at whoever he thought he was talking to. "Honestly, don't you have any hobbies? No, I don't think I'll be making a career change. It's temporary."

Ray checked his watch. Thatcher wasn't going to be happy about being kept waiting. As he turned to go, he caught the end of MacKenzie's argument, or whatever it was. "I don't know anything about childbearing hips. It hasn't come up. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to sleep."

Ray needed a drink. Maybe Thatcher could be convinced to move this meeting to a bar. He slid the door shut again, wincing at the tiny click it made as it closed. He shrugged. There was no way the guy heard that from across the room.

 

** _"pick a new addiction to quit"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) He grabbed a tourist map from the lobby. If he was going to be without a car, then he'd better learn where the fucking El stops were. Besides, reading the map helped him tune out the really loud argument some guy was having with himself at the other end of the car. When his feet hit the sidewalk at the Mart, Thatcher was paging through a copy of _Mercenary Life_. Once she looked up, she didn't waste any time. "What does your Mr. MacKenzie look like, Mr. Kowalski?" Thatcher stuck the magazine into her bag and started walking. Ray trailed along next to her.

People shouldn't make assumptions. Didn't somebody tell him that once? "He's not my Mr. MacKenzie."

Not even the flicker of a smile. "Describe him."

"He's my height, or close enough. Solid build, good shape, dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes. Nice ass." He was not smirking. He was not remembering recent fantasies involving himself, the guy formerly known as Benton, and a jar of marshmallow fluff. He was just smiling at the nearby shoppers. In a totally platonic and non-predatory way.

Thatcher shook her head and picked up the pace. "No."

Everybody's a critic. "No, what?"

"That's not Ruth MacKenzie."

Ray stopped. "Come again?"

"There's only one MacKenzie connected with this case, Mr. Kowalski. Ruth. She's considerably shorter than you."

What the hell? "She?" And this wasn't the sort of information that fell under Things Ray Should Know? "You mean you've known about this all along? Why didn't you tell me?"

Thatcher stared down Orleans toward the river. "Americans take so many things for granted, don't you think?"

A guy could freeze to death waiting for Canadians to get to the point. "Thatcher. Why didn't you tell me you knew about MacKenzie?"

Her eyes were cold. "Because she's dead, Mr. Kowalski. There wasn't any point."

Well, that made sense. "Dead? Maybe you'd better start from the beginning."

They ducked into the Green Door for a drink that Ray really needed and found a table at the back. He ordered a beer. So it was eleven in the morning. He was having a bad week. "All right. Start talking."

Thatcher looked disgusted by the sticky tabletop. "Ruth MacKenzie, also known as Ruth Henry, was the mastermind of the Bank of Canada robbery. She was a legend, the top of her field. She had been a Soviet spy during the Cold War, code name Nautilus, and that experience served her well when she turned to crime. She put the scheme together, made sure they got away with it, and was captured when the plane she was using to escape went down in the boreal forest."

Ray whistled. "Some woman. You could've told me this before."

Thatcher shrugged. "There was no reason. She died in prison, just months before she was due to be released. It's not important."

"Well, I think it's pretty damn important. I've got a guy using her name holed up in the room next to me. Anybody else you're leaving out?"

Thatcher shook her head. "There isn't anyone else. You really ought to be more worried about Cahill, Franklin, and Muldoon. And I don't know who this other man is, but it I were you I wouldn't trust him. You can't trust anyone, Mr. Kowalski."

Ray couldn't think of any reason to disagree with that.

 

** _"change the moment when it's gone"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) So maybe Ray was a little bit obsessed. His almost-ex-boyfriend was dead, his car was missing, and too many people wanted to kill him. And all he could think about was this handsome, impossibly sincere guy who was probably trying to rip him (oh, all right, _Canada_) off, and might be a killer to boot. It probably wasn't the healthiest interest he could have just now. But following the guy, Benton, MacKenzie, whatever, was smart investigatory practice. Even Welsh would agree. Probably.

He had to find out what Benton wanted, find out how dangerous he was, and the guy wasn't going to tell him the truth himself, damn it.

The day after his meet with Thatcher, he told Benton he had plans with Stella and Vecchio, then set up surveillance at the diner across the street from their hotel. One and a half coffees later, Benton came out the front door. Ray frowned through the window at him. He looked so good, so wholesome, in his snug jeans and rugged outdoors-type shirt. He didn't look like a bank robber/murderer. He looked like an advertisement for clean living and proper dental hygiene.

Benton started down the street. It figured he'd walk. Ray left some money on the table and started after him, staying almost a block back, turning the collar of his jacket up and keeping out of sight. A couple blocks down Benton suddenly stopped to help an old lady with her little wheelie grocery basket, so Ray slipped into an alley. Peering around the corner, Ray saw Benton do a quick repair on a stuck wheel, then continue on his way. Ray kept tailing him.

They walked for about five minutes before the next distraction. Two men were arguing in front of an apartment building, and Benton stopped to talk with them. There wasn't a handy alley or recessed doorway, but there was a bus stop bench with someone already waiting. Ray quickly sat down, and, when Fraser seemed to be glancing his way, turned to face the other guy. He gave him a friendly nod and a quick "Hey."

"Hello." For such a gloomy looking guy, skinnier than Ray even, with a shiny bald head that must get really cold in weather like this, he perked up a lot when you talked to him.

Benton was facing this direction now, talking to one of the combatants, gesturing towards the other. Ray turned back to the skinny guy. "You been waiting long? For the, uh..." Ray glanced back again. He didn't want to lose Benton now.

"The bus?"

"Yeah, the bus."

"No, not terribly long."

"Me neither. Nice day, isn't it." Okay, it looked like the peacekeeping job was winding down; the guys were shaking hands. Benton was backing up, lifting his hand to his head, then dropping it, nodding and walking on.

Ray popped up and resumed his pursuit.

"Hey!" Shit. Baldy was trotting up behind him. "Hey, would you like to join me for a smoothie? There's a great place right around the corner."

"Why are you following me?" Ray hissed over his shoulder. "Stop it! It's gonna look like a parade."

Oh, crap. No fight was ever really finished in Chicago, and the two guys were at it again. As Benton turned and made his way back towards them, Ray spun and hustled back to the bench, where baldy was looking gloomier than ever.

"So, no bus yet, huh?" He asked.

Baldy brightened again. "No bus."

The guys were taking their argument inside, and Benton was moving off at an impressive clip. Ray went after him.

Baldy popped up and tagged along. "Hey! Where're you going?"

"If you don't stop following me, I will kick you in the head." Ray couldn't yell and make a scene, but he could pack a lot of quiet sincerity into the threat. The guy finally got the message, stopping in his tracks with a reproachful look in his big, sad eyes.

Ray booked it up the street, just in time to see Benton disappearing through the revolving doors of a big, fancy hotel.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) The lobby was crowded and it took him a couple moments to find Benton, waiting patiently at the front desk. Ray sidled up near him, behind a pillar, and listened as hard as he could.

"Good afternoon. Do you have any messages for MacKenzie?"

While the lady checked for messages, Ray seethed. Fucking liar. Why was he cursed with a perpetual hard-on for liars?

The lady came back with something for Benton, _MacKenzie_, and he stepped to the side to read it.

Ray glanced down. He was standing next to a little table with a bunch of flowers and a pile of brochures. He snagged one with the number of the hotel and impulsively pulled out his cell. Dialing the front desk, he asked for Mr. MacKenzie to be paged. He'd caught Benton fair and square and he was going to rub his perfect fucking nose in it.

When the lady called Benton back over, he looked startled and glanced around the room. Ray ducked back out of sight.

"Hello?"

Damn, Ray's dick still twitched at that smooth voice. "Hey there, MacKenzie."

"Ray?"

"That's the only name I've got. How about you?"

"Actually, Ray, your real name is Stanley."

"Shut up, that's different. Why'd you lie to me?"

"I had no choice. I had or--. For all I knew you could have been in on the whole thing."

"Well, I wasn't. I'm not in on anything, apparently. So who the fuck are you?"

"You know my name."

"MacKenzie's a chick. A dead chick."

There was a long pause before Benton spoke again. "Yes, she was. MacKenzie was my sister."

"Your sister?" Ray was not going to fall for some dead sister sob story. He knew better. By now he had to know better.

"Yes. My sister is...was a fine person, an honest person. She was a, a pilot. Yes, a pilot. She guided hunting trips for hunters. Tourist hunters. Once she carried an injured man on her back three days to safety. And another time, she found an injured caribou and guided it from a ledge to save its life. She really is quite remarkable. I mean, she was. She isn't anymore, because she's, ah, dead. Now. So she's not impressive at the moment, although the stories of her remain. Much like the stories of the Mad Trapper. Have I ever told you about the Mad Trapper? It's another interesting story. You see, there was this trapper..."

"Benton," Ray warned.

"Right. Well. The RCMP, also known as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, believes she was part of the scheme to rob the Bank of Canada. I believe she was the innocent victim of Cahill, Muldoon, and Renard. They think I'm working with them, but I'm not. I'm on your side, Ray. That's the truth."

"What do you know about truth? Why the hell should I believe you? You lied to me from the beginning, just like Andreas. And you just led me around by my dick, didn't you? Jesus, I suck." Ray slammed his fist into the pillar. Damn, marble was hard. He shook out his hand and kept ranting. "I suck so hard for falling for pretty liars whose real names I don't even fucking know. What's your name now, Benton, huh?"

Silence.

"Don't you ignore--" Ray glanced around the pillar at the front desk. The phone was swinging on its cord and Benton was nowhere in sight. Fuck.

 

** _"fight the fights you just can't win"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) He was brooding in his room when he heard the door to Benton's--MacKenzie's--room close. He turned off the television and walked over to the connecting door. He knocked, and started talking as soon as it opened. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to leave a guy hanging?" MacKenzie blinked a couple of times, then turned his back on Ray. The guy was a mess--big red scrapes from his neck to his waist. Ray swore and pulled him back around. "What the hell happened to you?"

MacKenzie looked him in the eye. "I met a man with sharp nails."

"Muldoon."

"Yes. He's rather the worse for the encounter, I'm afraid."

Ray sighed. "Come on. I've got something in my room." He walked into his own bathroom and pulled some disinfectant wipes and a tube of antibiotic ointment out of his first aid kit. Thought for a second, and grabbed the alcohol, too. And bandages.

When MacKenzie hesitated in the doorway Ray waved him in. "Take off your shirt." Ray pushed him down onto the bed. Face first. He took absolutely no pleasure in that. None at all. The guy was injured, and Ray had no ideas about other things they could be doing on that bed.

"Really, Ray, I'm not sure this is appropriate." He flinched as Ray dug torn pieces of cloth out of the cuts.

"I've seen worse. You may not be able to lie on your back for a while," He didn't press any harder than necessary with the wipes. "But you can lie from any position, can't you?" It was important to be thorough. He added some more alcohol. "Does it hurt?"

MacKenzie's voice was strained. "I don't suppose you have a bullet I can bite?"

"Are you really MacKenzie's brother?"

"I could show you my passport."

Yeah, right. "Like that'd tell me anything."

"Would you like to see where I was tattooed?"

Ray revised his estimate again. He didn't look like the tattoo type. Ray knew the tattoo type. Hell, Ray _was_ the tattoo type. Maybe the guy did push people out of trains. Not that Ray had ever pushed someone out of a train. Wait, MacKenzie was waiting for an answer. "Sure."

"It's a bit of a trip. Downtown Inuvik." Oh, great. A comedian. Ray pressed a little harder.

That looked like a bullet scar. Close to the spine, too. Ray was pissed that somebody would try to kill Benton. Only it wasn't Benton, it was MacKenzie. And they hardly belonged to each other, so why should he care? "Hardy ha ha. You could at least tell me your first name. Again."

"I'm still calling myself Robert. Robert George, actually. It was my father's name."

Ray couldn't help asking. "Is there a Mrs. MacKenzie?"

"You would have liked my sister."

Ray taped a bandage on the worst of the cuts. "You're a new man." This whole name thing was getting confusing. "So you're calling yourself Robert MacKenzie. What do I call you? Bob?"

MacKenzie shuddered. "I'd really rather you didn't." He twisted a bit, and then sat up, impressed with the quick patch job. At least, Ray thought he looked impressed. It was hard to tell. "I regret the slight misrepresentation of some of the salient details."

Sure he did. "You lied to me."

"Obfuscated."

"Lied."

"Misinformed."

Ray gave up. "Look, Benton. Robert. MacKenzie. Or whatever. How can you tell if someone is lying?"

"Well, highly skilled individuals can measure the accelerated heart rate of a dishonest person. Or by studying the involuntary eye movements -- "

"So, in other words, you can't."

"I suppose that's generally true."

"There must be some way that normal people can tell. Something that doesn't involve being a human lie detector." Something that didn't involve looking the other guy in the eyes, because Ray wasn't sure he was ready for that. He was busy staying pissed.

"You know, Ray, this reminds me of an Inuit story."

"In what?"

"Not what, whom." Maybe he'd fallen on his head during the fight. "The Inuit are a loosely related group of...well, that's not important at the moment. Aboriginal nations."

"Oh, that clears it right up. Aboriginal Inuit."

"Actually, Ray, that's a slightly redundant phrasing."

"Don't call me stupid."

"I didn't--" Ray glared. MacKenzie, who used to be Benton, cracked his neck. "Let's just say it's a story about people who, in a less enlightened time, might have been referred to as Indians."

"An Indian story? You couldn't have just said that? All right, hit me. Before anyone else drops dead."

MacKenzie stood and put his hands behind his back. "There's an old riddle about two tribes."

"I thought you said it was a story."

"A riddle is sometimes a story."

"No it's not, it's a riddle." He fluffed a pillow and stuck it behind his back, because this could turn out to be a long story. Riddle.

MacKenzie got this little wrinkle in between his eyes. "It could be both."

"Is this both?"

"No. I suppose not."

Ray relaxed against the headboard. "Okay, then. Just wanted to make sure."

"May I proceed?"

"Oh, don't let me stop you." He waved his hand in an encouraging manner.

"Where was I?"

"Two tribes."

"Yes. As I was saying, there are two tribes, the Whitefoot and the Blackfoot."

"Those are stupid names for tribes of Indians."

MacKenzie looked offended again, like Ray was telling him he sucked at telling stories. Which he did. "Perhaps. But you did say I should get to the point, did you not?"

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead."

"The Whitefeet always tell the truth and the Blackfeet always lie. So one day you meet a man on the road, and you ask him if he's a truthful Whitefoot or a lying Blackfoot. Not that the actual Blackfoot tribe is any more likely to lie than anyone else. This is an entirely fictional tribe with the same name, invented for the purposes of contrast."

Ray rubbed the back of his neck. Must've slept wrong. "Right. Whatever you say. But how do I know he's either of them? He could be a prevaricating Redcoat for all I know." Hah. He knew perfectly good ten-cent words. He just chose not to use them.

MacKenzie shook his head. "There's no such thing as a prevaricating Redcoat. He's either a Whitefoot or a Blackfoot, that's how the riddle goes."

"Well, excuse me for thinking outside the box."

"I haven't mentioned any boxes." There was that little line again. Ray wanted to run his finger down it.

He settled for answering. "It's not a real box. It's a metaphysical box or something."

"Ah. I see. And so the man tells you he's a truthful Whitefoot. Which is he?"

"Why can't I just look at his feet?"

MacKenzie frowned, even though it was a perfectly legitimate question. "Oh, for heaven's sake. He's wearing moccasins."

"What, he's got some sort of fungus, he can't take them off?"

"Are you really going to ask a total stranger to take off his shoes?"

"I guess not. He's a truthful Whitefoot, then." That wasn't so hard.

"Why not a lying Blackfoot?"

He hated riddles. He had always hated riddles. Riddles and clowns. "Dammit. All right, which one are you?"

MacKenzie cleared his throat just like Benton used to. "Whitefoot, of course."

Of course. "Come here."

For once MacKenzie followed his advice. He stood next to the bed, looking from it to Ray. "Sit down. Take off your shoes." Ray ignored his smarter instincts, the ones that said he was repeating his mistakes, and pushed his luck. "And your pants."

MacKenzie's knees went out from under him. Ray was pretty sure it wasn't from the shock of his injuries. "I will do no such thing. What kind of man do you think I am?"

"Is that one of those rhetorical questions? Shoes, pants. Starchy boxers. I want to get lucky before you turn into someone else." Ray climbed onto MacKenzie's lap. Best way to make sure he didn't try to duck out. And, just in case his instructions were unclear, he pushed way up into MacKenzie's space and leaned in. "Here's the thing."

MacKenzie looked dazed. His gaze kept flicking over Ray's face. Eyes, mouth, eyes, mouth. Like he couldn't decide which was more dangerous. "What thing?"

Ray leaned a little closer. MacKenzie tried to back up, but hissed as his shoulders hit the headboard. His sudden shift forward brought their mouths together, and Ray pressed his advantage, gentling the kiss and trying to get him to relax. After a few seconds, MacKenzie sighed and opened his mouth for Ray's tongue. It was good. Better than good. It was greatness, in the worst possible way. The way that Ray was really, really scared meant that he'd fallen for yet another guy he didn't really know. He ought to worry about that. Tomorrow. Right now, he was busy trying to figure out how to get a hot shirtless guy to take off his pants.

"Mmph. Ray." Lick. "Ray." Suck. "Ray." Kiss. "Ray!" MacKenzie jerked his head away, panting.

The worst luck in the world. That's what this was. He wanted to fuck, the other guy wanted to talk. Wasn't this the sort of thing that only straight guys had to deal with? "What?"

Even from six inches away, MacKenzie wouldn't look him in the eye. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Ray growled. He was frustrated, so he had an excuse. "Why not?"

"Well, you've just lost a loved one." Ouch. Nothing like poking at a bruise.

"I haven't. I've lost a boyfriend. One that, might I remind you, I was going to break up with."

"Yes, I know you said that. But nonetheless, it is a traumatic experience." No, traumatic was getting all worked up by a guy who simply would not stop talking. Traumatic was going to be spending another night fantasizing about this guy, and then waking up alone. That was traumatic, right there. That was the sort of thing you needed therapy for. Like sex. Sex was very therapeutic.

"You could help me get over him." Ray's hand inched toward MacKenzie's belt. Nothing to see here, officer.

MacKenzie smacked his hand away. "I don't want to be a retake person."

"Rebound. You mean rebound. And you're not. You're really not. No rebounds here."

"Are you certain?"

Certain? He wasn't certain about anything. He was just horny. "Absolutely. You can trust me on this." Ray nodded.

"In that case, I see no harm in indulging in some aerobic exercise." Ray found himself on his back, MacKenzie leaning over him with a determined glint in his eye. Cool. He pushed his hips up. MacKenzie bit his lip and pushed back, grinding Ray into the bed.

The phone rang.

"For fuck's sake." Ray banged his head against the pillow. "The universe hates me."

"Oh, I doubt that. I think you overestimate the intentionality of the universe."

"No I don't. If the universe didn't hate me, you would have other things to do with your mouth and be thinking in much smaller words." Ray tried to reach MacKenzie for another kiss, but the bastard kept leaning back. They ended up kneeling on the bed, facing each other. The phone was still ringing.

"You're going to have to answer it."

"You suck." Ray climbed off the bed and crossed to the phone. He was reaching for the receiver when he heard MacKenzie's muttered reply.

"I certainly hope we get that far."

Ray was snickering as he picked up the phone, "Yeah?"

"Hey, darlin'," Franklin drawled in his ear. "You sound like you're having a good time."

His hard-on really should be going down right about now. Ray shifted and scowled. "What d'you want?"

"I was thinking it'd be mighty nice to have a chat with you and your friend. Lay the cards on the table, like. Room 1503."

"Yeah?" Ray asked. "What's in it for us?"

"Well, for one, there's the cutest little thing over here. Came by looking for that handsome pal of yours and we thought we'd keep an eye on her for a while. Make sure she didn't get into any trouble. Pretty little girls like that shouldn't be running around alone in the big bad city. Calls you 'Uncle Stanley.'"

Ray's guts turned to ice. "You son of a bitch! If you've done anything to hurt--" He was still yelling when he realized the dial tone was buzzing in his ear and MacKenzie was standing next to him.

MacKenzie put his ear to the phone for a moment, then gently pried it out of Ray's white-knuckled grip. "Ray?"

Ray was half way to the door when MacKenzie caught his arm. "Ray, stop! What happened?"

"They've got Frannie!" Ray tried to jerk out of his grip, but the guy was strong.

He was just about to take a swing when MacKenzie pushed him against the wall, pinning his hands to his sides. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Calm down."

"The bastards have her! We gotta go!"

"We'll go. But you have to pull yourself together first. You aren't going to help her racing in like this. You know this."

Ray was breathing hard, his chest hurting like he couldn't ever get enough air, but he'd stopped fighting. "She's just a kid."

"I know. We'll get her back, I promise."

It helped. MacKenzie's hands on his wrists, his body against Ray's, his calm voice and steady eyes. Ray tilted forward slightly, let MacKenzie take some of his weight. "You got your gun?"

MacKenzie didn't blink. "Yes. But that will not be necessary."

"Okay," Ray said. When MacKenzie didn't release him, he said again, "Okay! I'm cool. I'm a cucumber. Let's do this."

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) They headed down the hall, just a couple of rooms to 1503. MacKenzie's hand was raised to knock when Cahill opened the door. Ray pushed past him into the room.

Typical, he heard Frannie before he--thank god--saw her, sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, lecturing. "My daddy is a police officer and my mommy is a lawyer. You're in _trouble_, you big baboons."

"Hey, kid," Ray said, relief making his voice shaky.

"Uncle Stanley!" Frannie jumped off the bed and threw her arms around his middle.

He put a hand on her soft, dark hair, cupping the curve of her small skull. "Don't call me that."

"Daddy says--" Whatever Frannie was going to say next was forgotten as she spotted MacKenzie. "Mr. Benton!" she squealed, abandoning Ray to reattach herself to MacKenzie's hand.

Ray rolled his eyes and sacrificed MacKenzie. He had bigger fish to fry. Franklin was lounging in an armchair, Muldoon was looming by the bed, and Cahill was still fidgeting around back by the door. Ray focused on Franklin. "You son of a bitch."

"We didn't hurt a single hair on her head, Ray. We just wanted to get your attention." Franklin's voice was caressing, intimate.

Muldoon's wasn't. "It's not just you we can get to."

"Just give us what we want and neither you nor the girl ever sees us again," Cahill added from behind him. "It's a win/win situation, Mr. Kowalski."

"You never touch her again. You don't come near her," Ray gritted out, advancing on Muldoon. "I don't have it. I wouldn't give it to you if I did, but I _would_ give it to the cops."

Franklin sat forward. "Bad idea, Ray."

Ray raised his arms in the air and spun on his heel. "You want to search me? I don't have it. I've got a dead piece of shit boyfriend and a collection of goons, but a fortune I do not have. Maybe one of you has it."

"That's ridiculous," Cahill scoffed. "Why would we be after you if we had it?"

Ray spun to glare at him. "I don't know, maybe because if one of you stopped hassling me and retired to the Bahamas the other two braniacs might get a clue?"

Yeah, this criminal syndicate wasn't as tight-knit as they'd have you believe. Cahill shot a squinty, suspicious look at the other two, giving Ray a fierce rush of satisfaction.

Muldoon rumbled, "You're just trying to throw us off," and looked ready to make this thing physical.

Ray was ready to go, but MacKenzie broke in with a calm, "Gentlemen, if I may make a suggestion?"

Ray turned again to glare at him, standing there all crisp with one hand clasped in both of Frannie's. MacKenzie cleared his throat. "Perhaps if we all searched each other's rooms, we might feel more confident than no single one of us is hoarding the treasure."

It sounded reasonable and they split up. Ray wasn't letting Frannie out of his sight, so he pried her off MacKenzie and kept her with him while he searched Muldoon's room. The others spread out, trying to search each others' rooms and keep a suspicious eye on everybody at the same time.

Ray thought he was on to something good when he found a suitcase hidden on top of the armoire, but when he pulled it down and got it open, it turned out to be a specially made case for Muldoon's metal hand, complete with spare hook. Frannie raised such a ruckus with her shrieking that the room was suddenly full of suspicious bad guys and one extremely polite maybe bad guy.

After everybody confirmed that the suitcase did not actually contain anything like a hidden fortune, and nobody confessed to finding the loot, Cahill asked in a sharp, suspicious voice, "Hey, where's Muldoon?"

Suddenly certain Muldoon was making off with the treasure that very minute, Ray handed Frannie off to MacKenzie and joined the pack searching for Muldoon. She didn't resist her natural urge to climb him like a tree. When Ray closed the door on them, MacKenzie was standing completely still like he had a particularly terrifying bit of wildlife wrapped around his neck.

He was glad he'd ditched Frannie when they found him in MacKenzie's room, on his back on the bed, dead as a doorknob. It was gross; Muldoon's mouth and eyes were wide open, and his lips and chin were wet. Ray forced back his usual dead-person-nausea, telling himself at least he hadn't fucked this one. It helped.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) He took control of the scene automatically, shouting down the goons when they wanted to try to cover it up, move him to his own room and make like he'd died in his sleep. Idiots. He shoved them out of the room and told MacKenzie to keep and eye on them, then used his cell to call it in.

Ray was leaning in the doorway of MacKenzie's room, guarding against body-snatchers or whatever, when Stella arrived well ahead of the black and whites. Flying on mom instincts, she gave Ray her patented glare of death and dismemberment as she cradled the suddenly-teary Frannie. Ray figured Frannie was just bummed mommy'd taken her away from her new boyfriend. Speaking of the devil, there was MacKenzie, explaining the situation and reassuring Stella that Frannie was unharmed. Stella was in fighting trim, though, and just snapped that they'd see what they'd see when the police arrived. MacKenzie, wise man, backed off and headed on down the hallway towards Ray.

When MacKenzie reached him, he said, "Ray, I'd like to examine my room." At Ray's raised eyebrow, he added, "I won't disturb anything."

"Yeah, sure," Ray said slowly, "Knock yourself out." After exchanging a quick nod with Stella--hers was pretty stiff, but who could blame her--he trailed after MacKenzie, keeping an eye on him. His stomach was feeling weird again. Sure, it was probably 'cause of the dead guy in there, but all this pinball craziness with MacKenzie, the lust, the confusion, the suspicion, was really getting him down. He fished a broken toothpick out of his jeans pocket and stuck it in his mouth. It wasn't much, but it made him feel a little better.

MacKenzie did a careful scan of the room, then went to inspect Muldoon. "Ah," he said, which meant nothing at all, as far as Ray could tell, and then leaned even closer.

"MacKenzie," Ray warned, but it was too late. MacKenzie sniffed around Muldoon's face and then delicately licked his cheek. That was it; Ray was going to hurl. "Oh, that's sick," he gasped. MacKenzie was not putting that tongue back in Ray's mouth until he'd brushed his teeth with bleach or something. Seriously, there had to be a line somewhere before licking dead guys.

"Hmmm," MacKenzie replied, which, to Ray's way of thinking, was not quite up to the job at the moment. MacKenzie _should_ be saying, 'Ray, I seem to have suffered a bout of momentary insanity and licked the dead guy, who, honestly, wasn't particularly appealing when he was alive. Please help me disinfect and scour my tongue so that it doesn't have to be amputated.'

"Out," Ray blurted. "Too weird, too gross, _out_." MacKenzie took it well enough, and let Ray push him out of the room just in time to greet the hard faces of two of Chicago's finest.

 

** _"i ain't saying i told the whole truth"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray had never missed being a cop more than after four hours on the wrong side of the table in Interview Three, giving his statement over and over.

Vecchio started out pretty uptight, grilling Ray about Frannie and what she'd seen, before he stopped, closed his eyes and blew out a big breath, and focused on the dead guy instead. Ray's brain was numb and he kept tripping over his tongue, which just pissed both of them off more.

He was dancing around what he knew and didn't know and what Thatcher had told him he couldn't tell anyone, when Vecchio put his arms on the table and said, "Stop lying to me. This nose tells me when you're lying. It's never wrong, not in fifteen years," Ray couldn't keep a straight face. Things were about to get ugly when Welsh tapped on the door and politely requested Ray's presence in his office.

Ray was hoping for some straight talk, some man-to-man, cop-to-ex-cop understanding, but instead he got called up on the carpet with Franklin, Cahill, and MacKenzie. Welsh laid into them while chewing on antacids like they're going out of style. He always had a giant bottle of them in his desk, and Ray remembered him going through a bottle a week. He was beginning to realize why. He shifted uncomfortably and tried to project innocence and ignorance, but that just seemed to make Welsh mad.

Finally, so late it was morning already, Welsh grunted and threw up his hands and let them all go. Ray stuck close to MacKenzie on the way out, and they started back to the hotel together, walking easily, shoulders bumping.

"After all that, they wouldn't confirm he was offed," Ray griped, kicking a bit of litter out of his way.

"The wheels of justice grind slowly," MacKenzie replied, whatever that meant.

"Huh?" Ray thought for a moment. "You think they don't know yet?"

"Most likely not. But I think they will discover he was murdered."

"Yeah, doesn't take a genius to figure that one out, but how? That's what I want to know."

MacKenzie coughed. "I believe he was choked to death, Ray. With an icicle."

Ray stopped. "What? How?" After a moment's thought, he shuddered, then brought his hand to his mouth and jerked it in the universal blow job gesture.

Looking away, spots of color high on his cheeks, MacKenzie said, "Not precisely that way, necessarily. Most likely the perpetrator knocked Muldoon unconscious, then stuffed a sizeable chunk of ice into his throat, causing asphyxiation. It's really quite a gruesome crime."

"You're telling me." They walked for a couple of minutes before Ray spoke up again. "How do you figure that, with the icicle? Was that the _licking_ thing? 'Cause that is gross and you're not allowed to do that anymore."

"Understood." MacKenzie replied with a small smile. "To answer your question, I have an extremely acute sense of smell. I was not able to detect any of the distinctive aroma characteristics of Chicago tap water in the residue on Muldoon's face."

Ray snorted. "Aroma characteristics."

"Yes, aroma characteristics. The water did not come from the bathroom tap, which was the only source of water in the room." Wow, MacKenzie was really getting into this now. "I therefore deduced that the killer brought the water with him. After that, it was no great logical leap to assume ice had been the murder weapon, a suspicion confirmed by my tongue, which found Muldoon's skin significantly cooler than normal postmortem cooling would account for."

MacKenzie kept walking for a few steps, but Ray was planted to the sidewalk, staring. "What are you, Sherlock Holmes?"

Looked uncomfortable, MacKenzie tugged at the collar of his sweater. "I read a lot."

"Uh-huh."

MacKenzie shrugged helplessly. "And I do come from a region where the thawing and freezing of water is a major part of daily life. It makes sense I would suspect its involvement."

"You're a freak, MacKenzie."

"Understood."

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) A few minutes later, Ray tried out a theory. "I think Franklin did it."

"Why?"

It made sense. "Because I really think it was Cahill. It's always the guy you don't suspect."

"Do Americans think it's amusing to be so illogical?" That was definitely some sort of smirk. "Or can't they help it?"

He bristled at the insult. "What's so illogical about that?"

MacKenzie started ticking things off on his fingers. They were very nice fingers. "A) It's always the person you least suspect; B) you believe it's Franklin because you really suspect Cahill; therefore C) if you believe Franklin to be the killer, it must be someone else. Cahill is the only one left."

"Well, I've always been better with instinct. I feel sorry for Cahill." He glanced out at the river. "Wouldn't it be nice if we were like that?"

Nothing like a change in direction to throw the other guy off. "What? Like Cahill?"

"No, not Cahill. Why would I want to be like Cahill? He can't dance. Gene Kelly could dance."

That must be what poleaxed looked like. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Ray waved his arm helpfully. "Gene Kelly. Didn't you ever see 'American in Paris'? He danced along that river, the Sieve, not a care in the world."

Still no light of understanding. "I'm afraid my exposure to American popular culture was rather limited."

Ray gave up. He stuck his hands back in his pockets and started walking, covering a few blocks before he stopped to grab a hot dog from a vendor. After a couple of bites it didn't taste any good. He leaned against a railing, closed his eyes, and tried again. "MacKenzie?"

The soft response was right in his ear. "Yes?" Ray twitched and dropped tomato on their shoes.

Oops. "Sorry about that." MacKenzie looked disturbed by the threat of falling toppings. Ray threw the rest away. Staring at his feet, he muttered, "The tough guy stuff is an act. I'm scared, you know."

MacKenzie smiled, turning to face him. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hit you."

He tried to smile back. "Not because of that. Freak. About Muldoon. I can't think of any reason for somebody to kill him."

At least MacKenzie looked like he was considering it. "Perhaps...it's possible that someone felt four shares to be too many."

Ray shook his head. He needed to keep moving. "What makes you think that whoever did it will be happy with three? He wants all of it, and we're in the way, too." MacKenzie nodded. "First your sister, then Andreas, now Muldoon. If we don't do something, we could be assassinated. Any minute now--" he looked around, suddenly curious about what kind of guy MacKenzie was when he wasn't trying to keep people from getting killed. "Would you do anything like that?"

MacKenzie looked offended. "What? Assassinate someone?"

Ray thought about explaining, pointing out that they were walking past the street where Ferris Bueller sang to Chicago from a float, but it seemed like too much effort. MacKenzie probably wouldn't get it anyway. He shrugged. "Yeah. Would you kill someone?"

MacKenzie's answer was immediate and heartfelt. "Only if I didn't have any other choice."

Ray spent the rest of the walk to the hotel trying to decide if he was comforted by that.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) MacKenzie's room was still taped off. Ray offered to share, but MacKenzie just smiled and thanked the clerk kindly when she offered the one on the other side of Ray's. After MacKenzie walked away, Ray walked in and threw his stuff on the bed before he opened the connecting door on his side. He picked the lock to MacKenzie's new door but found it blocked by something heavy. Sighing, he knocked. MacKenzie asked who it was, even though Ray was the only other guy around. "Hotel security. Why haven't you got a man in there?"

He heard something being dragged away and MacKenzie's face appeared as it opened. "You're rather irritating."

Ray grinned. "Can I come in?"

"I don't think that's a good idea. I prefer to bathe alone."

Didn't know what he was missing. "Shouldn't you do that in my room?"

"Why on earth would I do that?" MacKenzie was already pulling back, but Ray stuck his foot in the door before it closed.

He tried to speak slowly, because clearly MacKenzie didn't get it. "Psycho killer? Safety in numbers? Any of this ring a bell with you?" Ray walked over to his desk, twirling the old fashioned key to the door on his finger as he searched through the pile of wrappers for a piece of gum. "Besides, I don't want to be by myself. I'm bored."

MacKenzie didn't look convinced. "I'm right here. If you need me, just shout."

As soon as the door closed he made his move. He leaned up against the wall next to the connecting door and took a deep breath. He mentally apologized to butch gay men everywhere, and let out the girliest shriek he could manage. It did the trick.

MacKenzie burst into the room and looked wildly around. "Ray!"

He spun as Ray slammed the door and locked it, dropping the key into his jeans pocket. Ray grinned. "Caught you."

MacKenzie blew out a breath when he found the hallway door locked, too. "There's an old Inuit story about a child who indicated the presence of polar bears once too often."

"Shower's that way." Ray pointed. Helpfully.

MacKenzie glared. "Ray. Open the door."

He had never backed down from a challenge. And this was one hell of a challenge. "You're being ridiculous. I bet there's dozens of guys dying to use my shower. Some of 'em even know me."

MacKenzie didn't move. He was getting a little pissy, which was fine with Ray. "I suggest you call one of them."

He couldn't resist. "I dare you." MacKenzie shrugged and toed off his shoes. "Hey. What are you doing?"

"Surely you don't expect me to shower while wearing my shoes?" He unbuttoned his shirt, which gave Ray all sorts of bad ideas. "Honestly. Americans have the strangest ideas." MacKenzie strolled to the bathroom, singing quietly. Something about Sherbrook. "I prefer to sing a medley of Stan Rogers favorites while bathing. I don't suppose you have any requests?"

Ray laughed despite himself. "Just don't shut the door, idiot."

"I don't think I know that one." The door closed.

Ray waited until he heard the shower start, then swung the unlocked door back open and stuck his head inside. MacKenzie was climbing into the shower, wearing some sort of red fuzzy costume that looked like kid's pajamas. Ray swallowed his disappointment. Talking to himself wasn't MacKenzie's only crazy habit. "What the hell are you doing?"

MacKenzie had the whole dumb Canuck thing down cold. He looked at Ray like he'd grown a second head, and started explaining. "Well, you see, it's quite cold in the Territories. Often well below freezing, and we find it advantageous to remain partially clothed while bathing." MacKenzie hadn't glanced at Ray again since he walked in, so he let his gaze drift a little, to where the water outlined MacKenzie's dick against the red of his...thingy. Longjohns or jumper or whatever it was called.

Not that Ray was looking at MacKenzie's dick, because he wasn't. Much. It was just kind of hard to miss, and MacKenzie kept babbling about snowshoes and crevasses and something called buddy breathing that sure didn't sound like any kind of buddies Ray ever had. He finally snapped back to attention at a sudden quiet. "What? How often do you do this?"

MacKenzie coughed. He turned his back on Ray and started scrubbing at the suit with a bar of soap. "Every day, of course. Unless I'm out on the trail, tracking a perpet...tracking an animal of some sort."

Ray found himself blushing for no reason. "I don't believe you."

"It isn't as if there are a lot of showers available on the tundra, Ray." MacKenzie started scrubbing at his watchband with a nailbrush. "Waterproof." He put the brush back and leaned under the water to rinse, closing his eyes and letting it drip down his face and onto the bit of his collarbone that showed above the edge of the suit. "And it isn't properly designed for the taking of snow baths."

Ray swallowed a couple of times and was about to ask what a snow bath was when it was at home--even though he really didn't want to know--when the phone rang. Thatcher was on the other end, and she sounded annoyed. Something about the threat of the goons down the hall, and how Ray shouldn't trust anyone, not even himself. And that Ruth MacKenzie didn't have a brother.

Like that was a surprise.

By the time he hung up MacKenzie stood in the bathroom doorway, naked except for a towel around his waist. He was dripping on the carpet, and Ray figured he'd better get them both out of the hotel room before he did something stupid, like plaster himself to MacKenzie's front and get them both all dirty again. Or put MacKenzie's lying face through the wall.

There was a bit of awkwardness when MacKenzie realized that he washed his boxers along with the red underwear, but Ray loaned him a pair and they headed out for a break from the whole mess. He was pretty sure they both needed one. And he didn't know if being alone together was more dangerous for him, or for MacKenzie. Who presumably wasn't MacKenzie anymore.

Maybe he was still Robert, at least.

 

** _"the appearance of conflict meets the appearance of force"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray hadn't been on a lake cruise in years, not since he and Stella had admitted it wasn't going to work and they were better off as friends. Didn't seem like it had changed much--expensive tablecloths, wine glasses, string quartet playing in the corner. It was a nice way to spend an evening with someone you loved.

With someone you couldn't trust, it was more like Chinese water torture.

MacKenzie interrupted his thoughts just after the soup. "Ray. You haven't spoken a word in nineteen minutes."

"Yeah. Just zoning. I keep thinking about Andreas, and Muldoon. And the next guy. Me, maybe."

MacKenzie leaned across the table. "Nothing is going to happen to you while I'm here. I need you to believe that."

"I can't believe that if I don't know who the killer is." Ray pulled away and glared at him. "I'm right about that, right?" He narrowed his eyes and leaned in again. "You don't know who did it."

This time MacKenzie blinked first. "No. Not yet."

The waiter showed up with their entrees, and Ray bit his tongue while the guy offered pepper and parmesan and whatever else. Musk ox milk, for all he knew. As soon as they were alone, he bit into his steak and argued around a mouthful of wine. "But if we sit back and wait it'll solve itself, won't it? Whoever's still breathing at the end will have won the round, don't you think?"

MacKenzie looked disgusted at his table manners, and his ears were pink. "Are you attempting to say that I killed them?" Ray didn't nod. Didn't even move. MacKenzie put down his silverware. "What would it take to convince you? Would I have to become the next victim?"

Ray shrugged. "It'd be a start."

The guy opened his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out. Ray was too tired to help him along, so he just sat there, drumming his fingers on the table, until MacKenzie managed to string a few words together. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Earlier you were trying to get into my union suit, and suddenly you're accusing me of murder. Not having killed anyone between the hotel and dinner, I find myself at a bit of a loss."

He'd really have to thank Thatcher for this. Maybe some nice cement shoes or something. "She didn't have a brother."

MacKenzie licked his lip. He was looking over Ray's shoulder, which was an old trick and not terribly convincing. "I can explain if you're willing to listen. Will you listen?"

Ray let his eyes drift over the skyline. Chicago hadn't been a bad place to live, really. So what if it got him killed? At least his murderer was pretty. "Why not? Isn't like I know how to swim." He dragged himself back to look at MacKenzie, who was staring right back at him.

"Bloom, close, kick, Ray. It's simple." MacKenzie took a sip of water and cleared his throat. "Right. The story of my life, then. Not that it would make much of a television program."

"Sitcom or reality show? Or no, I've got it. Murder mystery."

"Honestly, Ray. Do you want to hear this or not?"

Yes. No. "Fine. Whatever. Go ahead."

"I grew up in the far north, and there wasn't much choice there as far as occupations go. My mother...died...when I was very young, and my grandparents raised me. They were traveling librarians--"

"You're kidding me."

MacKenzie gave him a look that distinctly said, 'I would never lie about librarians,' and continued. "My father is, or rather was, one of the most dedicated Mounties the Territories had ever known. I grew up idolizing him and saw myself following in his footsteps. I even went so far as to enter Depot and graduate."

Ray didn't believe for a second that this guy was a Mountie. Mounties wore uniforms, like that woman at the Consulate. And besides, Thatcher had said she didn't know who he was, and there was no way there was an unknown Mountie wandering the streets of Chicago. Somebody would have noticed. "Is this going somewhere?"

"A place called Fortitude Pass. Victoria. My first posting."

Ray suspected he was out of his depth, here, as MacKenzie got a blank look on his face and continued in a monotone. "Victoria and I--I don't know what we were. In the end I tracked her up above the 62nd parallel into a place called Fortitude Pass. A storm had been blowing for days; the whole world was white. By the time I found her I had lost everything--my packs, my supplies, everything. She was huddled in the lee side of a mountain crag. She was almost frozen, very near death. So I staked a lean-to and draped my coat across it, drew her inside, and I covered her body with mine and I just held her, while the storm closed around us like a blanket, until all I could hear was the sound of her heartbeat, weakening."

Ray shivered, but he didn't interrupt. "I forced her to speak to me...just talk to me...say anything to keep the cold from taking her. And it snowed for a day...and a night...and a day. I was delirious; I almost gave up. The only thing I had to hold onto was the sound of her voice, which never wavered. She recited a poem. I must have heard that poem a thousand times that night. I never heard the words."

And then he stopped. Just sat there, looking out at the water and the city. Or something much farther away. Ray finally cleared his throat and asked what happened before one of them jumped overboard.

MacKenzie shook himself and sat up straight. "She was a criminal, Ray. She drove the getaway car during a robbery in Alaska. I was required to take her in, and I wanted to be my father. So I did. I left her there, at the same detachment that captured Ruth MacKenzie--Ruth Henry--and I walked away. I left her there, and the next time I saw her was in a courtroom." MacKenzie cleared his throat. "She asked me to let her go. We camped the last night, after the storm ended and we'd found my pack and my gear, slept that last night within view of a church. She asked me. And I couldn't do it, not even for her."

He looked away, but MacKenzie continued. "It wasn't the same after that. I couldn't seem to reconcile Victoria with everything I'd been told was important."

Something else in common. Although Andreas hadn't needed to look at him across a courtroom to pull Ray off the force. "You quit? Just like that?"

"Well, you did ask where the story was going." MacKenzie gave a choked laugh. "Away from the RCMP. Following Victoria would leave one with nothing to do. No honest means of support."

Ray shook his head. "That's bullshit. You could've been a tracker or a mountain man or something. A polar bear hunter maybe."

"You can lose your job, you can lose your home, and it can be devastating. But I lost myself, Ray. I was a Mountie. It was my profession, my history, and losing my faith in that left me with nothing. I began looking for people with more money than they would ever need. Money they would barely miss. Eventually, after my father was killed, I ended up here."

They'd get back to that 'my father was killed' thing later. Ray was pretty sure there was a story there, too. He went for the obvious. "You mean you're a thief?"

"Well, it isn't exactly the term I'd have chosen." MacKenzie smiled. "But I suppose it captures the spirit of the thing."

The waiter was back, but took one look at their nearly full plates and took off again. Ray squinted at MacKenzie. "I don't believe it."

"I can't really blame you. I haven't been the most forthcoming of companions."

Ray leaned his elbows on the table. "But I do believe it. That's the part I can't believe. I must be some sort of idiot. But goodbye Robert MacKenzie, and welcome back, Robert Benton. At least you're consistent with the first names."

Benton ran his finger under his collar. "Sorry. I'll be calling myself Steve Pinsent now."

That name sounded familiar, but Ray couldn't quite place it. Canadian, maybe. Which would make sense. "Wonderful. You know, you've had three names in the past two days. I've spent a lot of time undercover," Steve flinched, but Ray ignored him. He had a point to make. "--but this is ridiculous. I don't even know who I'm talking to anymore."

"The person's the same, even if the name isn't."

Ray stuck a fork into his vegetables. Even when he was starving he didn't eat carrots. "You're wrong. Robert MacKenzie wanted to avenge his sister's death. I can understand that. I think it's stupid, but I understand it. Steve Pinsent is a crook. A crook with a sad past, but still a crook. And with all the advantages you've got--brains, charm, the ability to lick things, a handsome face--" Steve blushed, but he didn't say anything, "there better be a damn good reason you didn't find something less illegal to replace being a cop. I want to know what excuse you're using now, because that whole thing with Victoria, a) wasn't your fault, and b) has to have happened ten years ago. Ten years ago I was straight and a patrolman. I managed to avoid a life of crime."

Bitterly, Steve answered, "You stood up for Andreas. You got to stay with him. Our situations are hardly commensurate."

Fair enough. "Okay, fine. But what else? It explains why you left the force, but not why you didn't stay up there in the Yukon Territory communing with the caribou."

Steve suddenly went earnest on him. Ray could see a flash of the Mountie he must have been before Victoria got to him. "It's quite simple. I like what I do. I enjoy doing it. There aren't many who could say that, who love their calling as much as I do. it's gratifying to feel as if I'm making a difference."

He wasn't clear on how one made a difference stealing jewelry, but maybe they did thing differently in the Great White North. Ray changed directions. "Is there a Mrs. Pinsent?"

Steve cracked his neck. "Yes, but--"

Ray ventured a guess. "She's married to someone else?"

"Right. Now please eat your dinner."

He stared glumly at the food and pushed the carrots up against the mashed potatoes. It still didn't look good. And it was getting cold. "I'm not hungry." Cold mashed potatoes were disgusting.

Steve clicked his tongue. "You need to keep up your strength, Ray."

Ray threw down his fork. "Don't you be fucking polite with me. All this time you were leading me on--"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the waiter back off. Again. They were going to need to leave the world's largest tip. Steve interrupted. "How was I leading you on? I was careful to avoid," he looked behind Ray for a moment, then continued with a little more anger, "no, I really didn't. I did nothing untoward...That hardly counts."

Ray tried not to be distracted by Steve's argument with his conscience. "Don't play innocent. All that rejection and playing hard to get. Now it turns out all you wanted was the money."

They looked at each other for a moment. Steve finally nodded. "That's right."

Hearing it out loud was a bit of a kick in the head. Ray blinked and looked out over the lake again as the streetlights began to blink on. He had to turn his head the other way, so they must have been heading back to the dock. This dinner couldn't end soon enough. "Oh."

He looked back just as Steve was reaching across the table. "Would you rather that I said a Chicago ex-flatfoot with experimental hair means more to me than over two million dollars?"

Well, yes. "No."

Steve shifted his hand closer. "It was a close call, though."

Ray looked up from the table. "What?"

That was really some smile Benton/MacKenzie/Pinsent had. Ray almost didn't hear his next question. "Haven't you realized that I'm finding it difficult to keep my hands to myself?" Ray's jaw dropped. "You should see your face."

Ray reached up and ran his fingers over his chin. He hadn't really eaten enough to be wearing anything, but it couldn't hurt to check. "What about it?"

Steve reached up and took hold of his hand. "It's lovely."

Ray smirked and pulled away. His stomach growled. "Enough chatting. I'm starving."

By the time the waiter had brought them two more baskets of bread and a piece of cheesecake--with cherries, and Ray planned to repeat the experience of watching Steve lick cherry sauce off his finger at the next available opportunity--they were almost back to the pier. When Ray pulled Steve up and across the deck to dance in a secluded corner, he seemed willing enough. When he pressed Steve back against the rail and leaned in to kiss him, though, the guy stiffened up again. "Aren't you allowed to kiss back?"

Ray leaned in--smothering an answer about doctors and thermostats--biting at Steve's lip and feeling Steve's hands slowly wrap around his wrists. After a couple of minutes, Steve broke away, panting. "I think we're going a little fast."

Ray rocked his hips against Steve, which earned him a moan. "If you think this is fast, you should see me drive."

Steve quirked an eyebrow. "Stick shift?"

Ray snickered. He was going to like Steve. "I know why you're not taken. Nobody can keep up with you."

Steve stepped forward, throwing Ray off balance and pushing him up against the bulkhead. Pinning Ray's arms down, Steve slid a knee between his legs and kissed his way over to Ray's ear. "Relax. You're gaining." Things got a little hazy after that. Fun, but hazy.

 

** _"there isn't time to be afraid or think about mistakes we've made"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray wanted to fuck Steve on the boat.

He wanted to fuck Steve in the cab, a cab he'd barely even had to argue for, and Steve giving up a nice, brisk walk in freezing weather was a sign the guy was as bad off as Ray, as was the way Steve kissed him, both hungry and tightly restrained, the whole ride back the hotel.

He wanted to fuck Steve in the elevator, but had to settle for pushing him against the mirrored wall and rubbing and kissing until both his mouth and dick felt raw from the pressure and the need.

He wanted to fuck Steve in the hall outside his door, when he couldn't fit the card in the little slot because Steve was mouthing his neck and ran a hand down Ray's arm to steady his hand and used it to unlock the door.

He definitely wanted to fuck Steve in his room, when Steve kicked the door shut behind them and neither of them turned on the lights and Steve pressed him against the wall and held Ray's head in his hands. Ray was reaching for him with his mouth, with his hands, but Steve held him there, held him still, and ran slow fingers over Ray's face, tracing his eyebrows and cheekbones in the dark.

Steve ran a thumb over his lips and Ray parted them, letting him slip his thumb inside and feel Ray's teeth, his tongue. Ray sucked on Steve's thumb and Steve moaned, the sound both pained and relieved.

Ray kept Steve's thumb in his mouth, biting to hold it there, and put his hands on Steve's hips, pushing him back from the wall and pulling him towards the bed, shrugging off his jacket as he went. Steve followed, finally obedient.

Standing next to the bed, Ray ran his tongue over Steve's thumb one last time then pulled Steve's hand away, put it on the hem of his shirt, curling his fingers around the fabric. "Lift," he said, and Steve did, pulling the shirt over Ray's head, then running his fingers down Ray's neck to his collarbone.

Ray took Steve's hands again, pulling them away from his chest and bringing them to Steve's. "Unbutton."

"Unbutton," Steve agreed, and popped each button quickly, efficiently, while Ray untucked Steve's shirt and run his fingers underneath, feeling hot, smooth skin, feeling him breathing.

He pushed the shirt off Steve's shoulders and pulled his undershirt off, then leaned in, closing his eyes at the feel of Steve's chest against his. When he started to wrap his arms around Steve's neck, Steve stopped him, pulled his hands down to Ray's fly, and said, "Unbutton."

"Yeah," Ray breathed, and popped the buttons on his jeans, while Steve unzipped his own. Then they were pushing each other's pants and Ray's underwear down and getting tangled up and kicking free and Ray was falling backwards and down and he was on the bed, on his back, with Steve pressed the length of his body, naked, and his skin was so, so hot.

Ray wrapped his legs around Steve's and thrust up, the heat and slide and friction of it the perfect sensation, until Steve kissed him again, kissed him slow and deep, and then both sensations together were even more perfect.

When Steve took hold of his wrists and pushed them into the bed and moved so his cock dragged along Ray's, kissing his mouth, his cheek, his ear, then that was the most perfect, and Ray didn't think it could get better, not without killing him, because every good feeling he'd ever had was right here in bed with them, every fucking place their bodies were touching.

Steve released his wrists and reached out to the bedside table and found the lube in the drawer, the lube Ray had used thinking about him and Ray wondered, briefly, how he'd known it would be there, until he flipped the lid and wet his hand and stroked Ray's cock and then stroked both of their cocks together, and it was perfect, it was breaking him.

He'd shatter and there'd be nothing left because sex wasn't supposed to be this good, nothing was supposed to be this good. Life was shitty and boring and hard work and pleasures that you clung to because you needed to, because there wasn't anything else to cling to. If he knew this kind of torture pain perfection was possible, he wouldn't be able to function, he'd follow Steve around, helplessly humping his leg because doing anything else would be insane.

He pushed up into Steve's hand and Steve moaned and Ray wanted it all, wanted Steve's weight on top of him and the harsh sounds of their breathing and the way his balls were tight and thrumming with it. Steve's hand stroked them and Steve's cock was so hot and hard against him and they slid against each other and Steve's hand twisted and it was too good. Ray closed his eyes and Steve bit his throat and then he did shatter and he came all over Steve's hand and his stomach. Steve moaned and lay heavy against him and thrust in the slick. Ray curled his fingers too hard into Steve's shoulders and Steve came, said "Ray" and came, panting into his neck.

Ray traced his fingers over Steve's back and the back of his neck and tried to breathe. Eventually, he said, "Shit."

Steve propped himself up on his elbows and peered down at him in the mostly-dark. "Excuse me?"

"I said 'shit.'"

"That's what I thought you said."

"So, that pretty much rocked my world. I saw stars. You've ruined me for all other men. That happen to you a lot?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"This is so fucked."

Steve didn't say anything, just kissed him; slow, careful kisses, like he was trying to make something new and pretty out of their mouths together. Ray hated him right then, just a little, because Steve was touching him like he was precious, but Steve was a crook and a liar like Andreas, and Ray was sick of it, sick of his cock tugging him through life, sick of believing in people he shouldn't.

He wrapped his legs tighter around Steve, kissing him harder, trying to push down the angry, sick feeling. He grabbed Steve's ass, just as firm and beautiful and fucking perfect as he'd thought it would be, and he ground them together as if they weren't soft, as if they weren't still tender.

Steve put his hands back on Ray's head, pushed his fingers through Ray's hair and tilted his head back. "I'm sorry," he breathed, and Ray didn't know what that meant, didn't know if Steve was sorry for being Robert Benton Steve MacKenzie Pinsent, or sorry because he thought his dick was too small, which it very much was not, or sorry for something he hadn't even done yet, some other way he was going to ruin Ray's life. He didn't ask because he didn't want to hear anything Steve had to say, didn't want to have to think about whether he was lying, and he didn't really get a chance to ask because Steve was slipping down his body, tracing his nipples and the line down the middle of his belly with his tongue.

Ray smacked Steve's shoulder and said, "Don't. Not safe."

Steve lifted his head and said, "Right. Of course," ran his fingers down Ray's side like he regretted leaving, then stood and walked to the bathroom. Ray tried to watch him go, but he was pretty blurry in the dark without his glasses. When he came back, quiet footsteps on the carpet, Ray lay there with his arms behind his head and one leg raised and let Steve clean him with careful strokes, his skin suddenly chill as the damp from the washcloth cooled.

When Steve was finished and back once more from the bathroom, Ray climbed under the covers and held them up in invitation. "Come on, I'm freezing."

After a moment, Steve joined him, their bodies heating the sheets and each other.

In the middle of the night, Ray woke up to find Steve lying perfectly still, awake and hard. Ray rolled on top of him and kissed him, Steve's erection sliding up between his cheeks, the hunger suddenly back as if he hadn't been laid in months. He moved back and down, feeling the slide of Steve's cock. Steve hissed against Ray's mouth and he pulled away. "Your back."

"No," Steve said, following Ray's mouth, his hands finding Ray's hips and rocking him there, right there. "Stay."

Ray kissed him again, then rolled toward the nightstand, fumbling in the dark for the lube and condom. Lying on his back, he pressed both into Steve's hand.

Taking them, Steve disappeared under the covers, licking down Ray's side and positioning himself between Ray's legs, his tongue exploring Ray's hip, his thigh. Then a slick hand was teasing the base of his cock, sliding up and up a little further, until his cock was wet and slippery and he was thrusting up into Steve's hand and he could feel Steve's teeth on his thigh.

After some more fumbling, Steve's other hand was teasing him, fingers slipping inside and opening him, and he spread his legs as far as he could and lifted his hips, begging for more.

He was suddenly too hot and he kicked and tugged the covers off. Steve was pale in the almost dark, kneeling between his thighs, both hands moving on him and in him. He rocked his hips again and Steve looked up, his eyes shadowed.

"C'mon," Ray said, and Steve might not be such a bad guy after all, 'cause he was moving over him, condom already on, fitting against him just right, dragging across where Ray wanted him.

Steve kissed him again, hungry, teeth in it, and Ray wrapped his legs around Steve's waist and tried to fuck himself onto Steve's cock until Steve helped and angled himself and pushed and he was slipping in. Ray dropped his head back at the hot sweet burn of it and pushed down, asking for more.

Steve slid all the way in with a groan, resting his forehead on Ray's shoulder as Ray breathed in short, harsh bursts. It was so much, filling and pushing him, but it wasn't enough, it couldn't be.

"More," Ray gasped, and Steve pulled out and pushed back in, steady thrusts that hit him just right, faster, harder, until he found a rhythm, something Ray could feel and follow and lead. They played with it, finding the sweet spot and then speeding up or slowing, teasing each other and themselves, until they were sweat-slippery, communicating in incoherent gasps and groans. Ray's thighs ached and he was dizzy from being this hot, this hard, this good for so long.

His cock was trapped between their bodies, and he'd grab himself, get himself off, but then he'd have to let go of Steve's back, miss the muscles moving under his skin, might have to give up Steve's mouth on his, and he couldn't. But he didn't have to because Steve lifted one of his legs higher and drove deeper and Ray came with a hard, fast flash of heat through his body and Steve's name on his lips.

Steve groaned, thrust again, and came. After a few moments panting into Ray's shoulder he withdrew, shuddering, tied off the condom, and, judging from the sound of impact, managed a bullseye in the little trash can across the room. Ray pulled Steve up beside him, pressing himself up against Steve's back despite the prickle from the bandage, and draped an arm over his chest.

Ray was almost asleep again when Steve said, quietly, "My previous sexual experiences failed to prepare me for this, as well."

 

** _"i'm all right if i don't know"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray was sleeping great, sleeping the sleep of the well fucked, rather than the well and truly fucked, for the first time in forever, when a solid knock came from the door. He rolled away from where he'd been pressed up against Steve's warm, broad back.

"Cops."

"How do you know?" Steve sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. His hair and eyes looked black, and Ray could just make out the shape of his shoulders and back. Ray really didn't want to get out of bed.

"The knock. It's, what do you call it, distinctive." Ray dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his jeans.

Steve stood, grabbed his clothes, and disappeared through the connecting door. He stuck his head back through. "Be careful, Ray."

"Yeah, yeah."

He was though, checking through the peephole to make sure it wasn't Cahill or Franklin with a meat hook. Worse. It was Welsh. Welsh out of the office, on the streets before the sun was up. Ray's stomach sunk down around his ankles. He steeled himself and opened the door.

"Hey, Lieutenant. It's a bit late for a social call, even for me."

"Let me in, Kowalski."

"Lieu, I never knew you cared."

"Can it."

Ray flicked on the light and stood back as Welsh walked in. Welsh stood in the middle of the room, looking around with an official eye. Ray crossed his arms over his bare chest. "So, what is it?"

A soft tap came from the connecting door. Idiot. Ray opened the door for Steve, who was clean and dressed and looked nothing like the guy Ray'd been rolling around naked with half the night.

"I heard voices," Steve said, coming into the room and standing at attention, his hands behind his back. Ray snickered at that--it was probably the truest thing he'd heard Steve say yet--then he squinted at him. What was up with the posture?

Steve noticed him staring and dropped his hands to his sides, visibly relaxing. Weird. They both looked at Welsh, who glanced between them, the messed up bed, and the lube on the bedside table. Ray suddenly found the carpeting fascinating.

"Where were you at three-thirty this morning?"

Ray leaned a shoulder against the wall. "Why're you asking?"

"Answer the question, Kowalski."

"In bed, asleep."

Welsh turned his attention to Steve. "And you?"

"I was as well."

"In his bed?"

Steve swallowed. "No."

Welsh narrowed his eyes. "Really?"

Steve's shoulders slumped. "No, I was here." He shot an apologetic look at Ray, who grinned.

"Can anybody else confirm your story?"

"We need alibis?"

"Yes. Anybody else?"

"The bed's not that big, Lieu." Welsh shot him a look he'd perfected over decades on the force, making Ray wonder if he'd ever been half as good a cop. "Just us two."

Welsh sighed a gusty sigh and pulled out the only chair, sitting heavily. "Your pal Cahill was found this morning. In his pajamas. In the elevator. With his throat cut."

"Any leads?"

"We got two dead guys in this hotel, one of them in his pajamas and the other drowned in a bed. Franklin's checked out, disappeared, poof," Welsh made a disgusted hand gesture, "into thin air. So we're looking for him. And we're checking on you two."

He heaved himself out of the chair and headed for the door, pausing to rest a hand on Ray's shoulder. "I'm thinking it's a good thing you don't appear to own pajamas." He shot one last look at Steve. "Watch your back, Kowalski."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

After the door shut behind Welsh, Ray walked over and dropped on the bed. "That wraps it up, then. Franklin killed Cahill."

Steve sat on the edge of the mattress. "And presumably Muldoon as well."

"So, he's got the money and he's gone. It's over. Finito. Bad luck for you, missing out on the big haul."

"Perhaps."

The phone in Steve's room began to ring, and he went to answer it. Ray fished yesterday's shirt off the floor and pulled it on.

The conversation was brief, and when Steve came back through their connecting door he was frowning thoughtfully. "That was Franklin."

"Yeah? Calling to gloat?"

"No." Steve met his eyes. "Calling to demand his share of the stolen money."

Ray blinked, then leaned forward, excited. "Offing Cahill didn't get it for him."

"Ray, we're missing something. If Franklin doesn't have the money, then presumably Muldoon and Cahill didn't either. It's still hidden, and you're the key."

"I've got an empty apartment and a missing car, Steve. I don't have a Canadian fortune stuffed down my pants."

Steve's eyes flicked down to his crotch for a second, then he refocused on the issue. "What did Volpe have with him when he died?"

"Um..." Ray closed his eyes and tried to remember. "His cell phone, some matches, his keys, his wallet. Some other stuff, too. The usual."

"Were you able to identify the keys?"

"Yeah. Just the ones he always had. The apartment, the garage, his car, the Goat. That's it."

"The cell phone, then."

"Welsh wouldn't let me look at it, besides identifying it as Andreas's."

"Hmm..."

"Dead end." Ray agreed glumly.

"We need to inspect his possessions. There may be a lead there."

Ray glanced at the clock. Almost six. He wasn't going to get any more sleep, and it didn't look like round three with Steve was an option. "All right. I'm working at the station today anyway. I'll see what I can do."

"Don't put yourself in danger from the law, Ray," Steve said, looking uncomfortable.

Ray let out a breath. "You're a freak, Steve."

Steve was distracted. "Yes, you suggested that earlier."

"No, last time I said, 'You're a freak, MacKenzie.'"

 

** _"this should end but i can't let you go"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Work was work, even when his life was upside down and inside out. There was an interview he'd have to help out on scheduled for later, but first he cooled his heels for a while, twitchy with the almost-cop-but-not itch. A big event for Ray-the-consultant was helping a gorgeous French tourist who'd lost what English he had after being mugged. Ray calmed the guy down and helped him file a report and knew for sure he had it bad when the guy teased him about his accent and put his hand on Ray's arm and he felt nothing, nada, nic, bupkis, rien.

The interview was fun, though. He figured out pretty quick the guy was full of shit, claiming to be from Madrid when Toledo, Ohio, was probably the closest he'd ever gotten. Ray had the guy nailed, had him squirming and holding up his hands and saying, "Sorry, sorry man! Just practicing the language," when the detective running the interview, a _real_ detective clapped him on the back and ushered him out of the room.

"Thanks, Kowalski. You've been a big help," the guy said, as he shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.

Right. Not a cop, not a cop, not a cop. Fuck it. Ray might not be a real cop anymore, but he sure as hell wasn't going to sit on his ass while schmucks who didn't know half of what he knew tried to figure out his _own_ mystery.

He got himself some station house coffee, just to relive to the bad old days, then wandered down the hall to find Vecchio. He ran into Stella first, and wasn't that a treat. It took some serious sweet-talking to get her off her protective mommy trip and make nice with him again. But eventually the tight lines around her eyes relaxed and she said, "Damn it, Ray. I'm worried about you."

"Stella, sweetheart." He was going to go for comforting and manly, but instead he slumped back against the hallway wall and said, "Yeah. Me too."

She looked at him for a minute, then gave a sharp nod and said, "Come on, then."

And then he was trotting after Stella, just like they were kids again, peppering her with questions about where they were going, what she was up to. When she looked into Interview Two and jerked her head meaningfully to the side, Ray grinned. That was his girl.

Ray and Stella were getting comfortable in the supply closet when Vecchio appeared. "Aw, hell," he said, pausing in the doorway, "I should have known this wasn't going to be recreational."

Ray flashed him a grin. "Sorry, Vecchio. You're not my type."

"My heart is broken." Vecchio turned to Stella, asking, "So what's so important you have to see me when I'm _this close_ to getting a confession out of Bartholemew?"

"Ray is investigating Andreas's death," Stella announced. "And you're going to help him."

Damn, but Ray loved that woman.

Vecchio fussed and whined and pointed out that Ray was no longer qualified to be investigating how many licks it took to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, which made Ray snicker. He could afford to snicker. Stella Vecchio was in his corner.

After enough squabbling to save face, Stella and Vecchio slipped out the door. Vecchio returned alone with a box of evidence and a fat file. He set them down on a pile of boxes, then waved his finger under Ray's nose. "You do not take _anything_ out of the building. You do not get yourself killed. You do not get me in trouble with my wife. Do you understand me?"

Ray saluted and pushed him out of the way, Vecchio grumbling the familiar tune about manners and punks and bag ladies.

He didn't know how long he'd been in there, reading reports and going through the stuff that'd been on Andreas's body when the door opened again and, looking up, Ray saw Steve standing there, clear as day and twice as pretty.

"Shut the door," he hissed, and Steve did, after checking the hallway like they were in a bad spy movie.

"Any leads?" Steve asked.

"Leads." Ray frowned at the boxes. "You've been watching too many cop shows. Nope. It's here, I can _feel_ that it's here, but I just can't figure it out."

"Perhaps another set of eyes?"

"Yeah. Sure." As Steve sat down on the floor next to him, Ray bumped shoulders with him and gave him a good, smoky smile. Steve brushed his thumb along Ray's eyebrow and kissed him, just a nice, warm, good-to-see-you kind of kiss. It made Ray flushed and warm and kind of embarrassed, so he slipped Steve a bit of tongue, turned it nasty before pulling away.

While Steve was still blinking and adjusting the fit of his jeans, Ray handed him the box of Andreas's stuff. "Here. It's gotta be something in here."

Together, they went through the contents of the box one by one. Sunglasses, phone, wallet, mints, stained clothing.

"How'd you find me, anyway?" Ray asked, trying to distract himself. Apparently getting tossed off the El left an impression on the wardrobe.

"I am a skilled tracker, Ray. And I've told you about my keen sense of smell."

"Right," Ray snorted, then picked up the mints and sniffed them, holding one out to Steve. "Could you recognize heroin just by tasting it?"

Steve quirked a smile and leaned forward, licking across the mint and Ray's fingers. "Heroin," he said. "Peppermint-flavored heroin."

"Okay, okay," Ray muttered. "Dumb question."

Steve was holding Andreas's phone, frowning slightly, when he asked, "Didn't Mr. Volpe have a calendar of some kind? A day planner?"

"Holy shit!" Ray dropped the file and pawed through the box again. "Yeah, yeah, of course. A thing, a tech thing. P-P-PDQ, PCA. A thing. It's not here."

"Are you certain? Could it be stored elsewhere?"

"Certain I'm certain. And Vecchio said this is everything, all they've got." Ray stared at Steve for a minute, trying to figure it out. "It was here. Welsh showed it to me when I identified the body."

"So it has been removed. Who has access to the box?"

"It should be pretty tight, but who knows? These guys, they have resources." Ray frowned and started thumping his palm against his thigh. "This is bad. This is not good. Somebody's ahead of us."

Steve reached out and grabbed Ray's hand, stilling it against Ray's thigh. Ray looked at his leg, at their hands together on his leg, and tried to think. The way Steve was stroking a finger over his was definitely not helping. Unless it was. Ray lunged for Andreas's phone.

"Ray?"

Ray ignored him and squinted at the phone. Please have power, please have power. He punched a button and yelped in joy when the screen lit up. Steve clapped a hand over his mouth. Right. Quiet, they needed to be quiet. Ray shook off Steve's hand and pushed another button.

"Ray."

"Shut up, Steve."

"Ray, tell me what you're doing."

Ray tried to talk and read and push buttons at the same time. "Andreas, he lost his last PDA." Push. Squint.

"And? _Ray_."

He looked up, everything falling into place. He climbed to his feet and yanked Steve after him. "So he backed up stuff he didn't want to lose on his phone. Kind of shorthand in the saved numbers. _C'mon!_"

They burst out of the closet, almost colliding with Vecchio in the hall. "Way to be subtle there, Stanley."

"No time. Gotta go. Stuff's in there." Ray called over his shoulder as he dragged Steve down the hall, flipping the bird over his shoulder when Vecchio called a sarcastic "You're welcome."

"What do you have, Ray?" Steve asked.

"Wait for it."

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) When they were outside Ray scanned frantically for a cab. Cab, cab, where's a fucking cab? Steve stepped off the curb and raised his hand and a cab appeared out of nowhere.

"How'd you do that?" Ray asked, as he climbed in.

"Ray, please. I think we have more pressing matters at hand." Steve was pretty cute when he was irritated.

Ray sat forward and gave the cabbie the address. Turning to Steve, he said, "One of the numbers in the phone. Wasn't a phone number, was an address. 33335, it means 333 35th street. It had, uh," Ray blinked and flushed, "romantic associations. For me and Andreas."

"Ah." Steve's face didn't give anything away.

"Okay, so we screwed there. That was pretty much as romantic as it got, okay?" He must have sounded pretty worked up, 'cause Steve's face softened and he took Ray's hand again. Ray held on tight and looked away.

They rode in silence until they were just a block or two away from their destination, then Steve stiffened. "Ray. It's Franklin."

It was. Heading _away_ from the entrance. "Does he look happy? Did he find it?"

"I don't think so," Steve replied as the cab slowed to a stop. "But I don't think we should lose him again. I'll follow him. You follow the lead."

"Yeah, yeah," Ray said, and was surprised when Steve paused halfway out the door, leaned back in and kissed him, hot and sweet and fast. "Be safe, Ray."

"Yeah," Ray repeated. "You too." But by then Steve was on the sidewalk and trailing Franklin. Doing a pretty smooth job of it too, considering.

After he paid the cabbie, Ray looked up and down the street carefully. Steve and Franklin were out of sight, and Ray didn't see anything that looked like a fortune. He didn't expect to. He was pretty certain he knew what he was looking for, and exactly where it was. He headed down the nearest alley, his heart feeling like it would beat right out of his chest.

He broke into a jog when he first saw the familiar black gleam. By the time he reached the Goat he was running. It was there. It'd been right there all along.

It was stupid, but Ray practically wanted to bawl he was so happy to see it. He fumbled out his keys and unlocked the door, checking the interior. No visible damage. The seat was still set up for his legs, and it was like coming home, everything familiar, from the smell to the curve of the wheel under his hand. Remembering the treasure, he did a quick, thorough search of the interior, and didn't come up with anything that hadn't been there before. If Andreas drove it here, he hadn't left anything Ray could find.

He got out of the car and walked slowly around it, looking for damage. It needed detailing, but looked good, really good. Ray rested his cheek on the roof for a moment, stroking gently with his fingers. His car.

He was so happy and relieved that it took him a moment to notice the change. Oh shit. Somebody _had_ been messing with his car. There were scratches--_fuck_\--around his hood ornament. He pressed his palms to the hood, a small sound of grief escaping him. His baby. He stroked the hood one more time, then bent to look more closely. Nodding to himself, he went around to the trunk, popped it, and got out his tool set.

This was stupid. He should move the car first, but he couldn't. He'd been waiting too long, he had to know. It didn't take long. In a few minutes he had the hood ornament in his hand. Flipping it over, he found what he'd been expecting.

A key. One small, innocent-looking key that was at the center of all of this.

Ray swore. Goddamn Andreas anyway.

Slipping the key into his pocket and the hood ornament into the glove box, Ray started the GTO--purr, baby, purr--and drove slowly down the street. A guy had to have priorities, after all, and his first was finding a safe place to park his car.

Ray paid through the nose for secure covered parking, bypassing a couple of places nearer the hotel for one he knew was safe, then walked the rest of the way, the key burning a hole in his pocket. He had it, he'd fucking found it. He was dancing on the inside, doing a quick little shuffle on the outside. He'd tell Steve, he'd call Thatcher, yeah, this thing was all sewn up.

Wait. His feet hesitated, missed a beat. Damn. Steve was a crook. Steve would want the money. Maybe try to convince Ray to give it over, or that the two of them should keep it, or he might try to take it. Ray threw a couple of shadow punches in with his footwork. Steve wouldn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't and Ray wouldn't let him anyway. But he wouldn't.

Ray was still trying to figure it out in his mind when he got out of elevator and saw the door to Steve's room cracked open. Shit. Every instinct he had woke up and his hand was scrabbling around for his gun before he remembered he didn't carry anymore. He sidled up to the doorway, trying to control his breathing--he was getting soft if adrenalin could make him gasp like this--and _willing_ Steve to be okay. Peeking inside, he saw carpet and, oh fuck, the bottom of a boot. He'd squeezed his eyes shut against the sight before his brain gave him the rest of the information--the bottom of a _cowboy_ boot--and he could breathe again.

He pushed the door all the way open, cleared the room and stepped inside. He barely glanced at the body on the floor--not Steve, not Steve, not Steve--before going over and checking his room, too.

Once he was sure he was alone, he looked more closely at the body. Sam the cowboy Franklin was sprawled out face down next to Steve's bed, a wet red pool spreading on the carpet. Ray knelt and checked for a pulse, knowing it was no good, hating the feel of the still-warm skin. Nothing.

He was about to go for the phone when something caught his eye. Steve's map, the one he'd used to show Ray his home. It'd fallen off the bedside table and lay open on the floor. Franklin's hand was stretched out, red-tipped fingers resting on the map, and--gross--he'd written "Mac" in his own blood right over the Beaufort Sea.

Ray stared.

No.

Oh, fuck, please, no.

_Steve_. Mac for MacKenzie. MacKenzie the name Franklin knew Steve by. All along, polite, clean-cut, many-named Steve was the one. It made Ray sicker than the dead guy on the floor did.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to call Thatcher. He needed just half a second to catch his breath, but if Steve had been back to kill Franklin then he couldn't be far away. Ray checked for his cell phone and backed out of the room.

He was waiting for the elevator when Steve suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. "Ray! I'm so relieved. I went back and couldn't find you. Did you have any success?"

He couldn't stand it. Steve walking right up to him with that stupid handsome evil face. He swung and connected hard, knocking Steve against the wall. Steve looked at him with shocked eyes, wiping his bloody lip with his thumb. Ray bolted.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) He clattered down the stairs and out the door, running, looking for a cab. Steve would be after him. Steve wouldn't stop. No cabs. Ray ducked down an alley and over a fence. Three blocks over and two down and he'd be at Harrison. It would have to do.

He stumbled down the stairs and made it onto a departing train with seconds to spare. By dumb luck it turned out to be headed north, and he got off at State and Lake, hands buried deep in his pockets. It was getting cold out. Explained the whole numb thing.

Climbing to the street, he stopped and fumbled for the paper in his pocket and the phone. No answer.

He had turned to walk down Lake when a familiar voice called out. He spun to see Steve pelting out of the subway station. "Ray! The money! What have you done with--"

Swinging himself around the El railing, Ray stumbled up the stairs and threw himself onto the gate landing. He could hear Steve's confused questions as he followed. "Where are you going? Wait!"

"Why?" Ray panted. "So you can kill me, too? Franklin, he said said MacKenzie did it. He was pointing at the Beaufort Sea, Steve. At you."

"I'm not MacKenzie." Steve stepped toward him, but Ray held up his fist to ward him off. "You know that."

"Franklin didn't. He still thought--"

Steve shook his head. "Don't be an idiot." Ray shrugged and stepped through the gate. As he waited for a train, any train, he heard Steve arguing with the station manager. He pushed his way onto a crowded car and watched out the door as Steve ran onto the platform and searched the crowd. Just as the doors closed, their eyes met. Steve shouted, "Ray!" but they were already pulling away.

He elbowed a couple of suits to get some room and hit redial. When Thatcher picked up, Ray told her everything; about the key and Franklin and how Steve--goddamn it Steve--was the killer after all. She didn't pause, gave him crisp instructions to meet her at the Pritzker Pavilion immediately. Before she hung up she warned him again; he would not be safe while he had the key. Well, that was helpful.

He shoved himself through the press at Quincy, crossing over the walkway and tapping his foot while he waited for the brown line. He was still waiting when Steve's face flashed by, his mouth working. As the train pulled away, they faced each other across the tracks.

"Ray. Why won't you listen to me?" Steve started to climb the stairs.

"I'm through listening to you. Doneski." Ray searched frantically for a train. Any train. He didn't care what color it was, as long as it took him away from here.

"But I didn't kill anyone." Steve still sounded reasonable, like Ray was the crazy one. Like he didn't know about any bodies in any basements.

Ray backed away from the steps. "Then who did? You're the only one left."

A train pulled in, and the last thing Ray heard before the doors closed was Steve. "Ray! You must believe me!"

Ray whispered back. "No."

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) He slumped into a seat, shifting awkwardly at the reminder that just yesterday he'd trusted the wrong guy. Again. Buildings flashed past the window, alternating with the shine of headlights. He was such an idiot. The sudden brightness of the Chicago sign wrenched him out of his daze. "Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Keep your head in the game, Kowalski." He stumbled off at Clark, groaning at the sight of yet another flight of stairs. Christ, intrigue was tough on the knees.

Just as his feet hit the opposite platform, he spotted Steve standing yards away. Ray coughed a little and wished he'd given up smoking a lot earlier. Steve's face was a bit of a blur, but Ray could imagine the disappointed expression. "Don't come any closer. I mean it. Not one step."

"I'm not going to hurt you." Steve held up his hands, palms out. "I just want to talk."

Talk. All Steve did was talk. And every time he opened his mouth, a lie came out. "You've got until the next train comes."

"I don't understand. Explain it to me. You found Franklin?"

"Yeah. I found him. Dead on the floor of your room." Ray backed up a few feet. "And don't even think about killing me. I already called Thatcher. She knows the whole story."

Steve put his arms behind his back. "Inspector Thatcher? You've spoken to her?"

"Yeah. I'm on my way to to turn it over, so don't try anything funny." He spotted a train coming around the corner behind Steve. "Time's up."

He half expected Steve to follow him onto the train, but the guy just stood there like somebody had cut his strings.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) By the time he jogged up Randolph, muttering about how it would have been faster just to walk the whole way, Thatcher was a familiar crisp, tiny shape standing in the shadows. Ray was maybe twenty feet away from her when he heard Steve yell his name.

"Stop! Ray! She's not Thatcher!"

Ray froze.

"Don't listen to him, Mr. Kowalski. He's not to be trusted." Thatcher's voice floated out of the darkness. "He killed all those men looking for that key. He'll kill you, too."

"I didn't kill anyone, Ray." Steve's voice was closer now.

Ray took another step towards Thatcher.

"Ray," Steve said. "Inspector Thatcher is much younger woman. That woman is Ruth MacKenzie. She's been lying to you."

Ray's brain was spinning. _Everybody_ was lying to him. "Thatcher?"

"Ruth MacKenzie is dead. You know that." Her voice was harder now. Icicles in it.

"She didn't die, Ray. She's been hunting her co-conspirators for years. She killed Muldoon and Cahill and Franklin. That's what he was trying to say, that the _real_ MacKenzie did it. She killed Andreas, Ray. If you give her the key, she'll kill you too."

"That's preposterous, Mr. Kowalski," Thatcher called. "I'm not a dead woman. Just look at me."

"I've seen her at the embassy," Ray said. "She had the red suit on."

"Ray." Steve was pleading now. "I don't know how she did that, but she's not Inspector Thatcher. You have to believe me."

"Why the hell should I trust you, huh?" Ray yelled.

There was silence for a moment, then Steve said, "I can't think of a single reason why you should."

Ray turned his head to look at Steve. He was standing near a pillar, near cover. He was pale and breathing hard and he looked scared. Ray swallowed and took a step towards him. Steve almost smiled, then froze. Ray turned slowly, knowing what he'd see.

"Mr. Kowalski." Thatcher--Henry--MacKenzie--was pointing a gun at him, the barrel catching the light. "Just bring me the key. If you don't, I will be forced to shoot you."

"That won't get you the key, MacKenzie," Steve said. "If you harm him you won't leave here alive."

"It takes a lot to kill me," she sneered. "I should have died in the plane crash. Those bastards got me sent to prison. I should have died there. They thought I would die there. But I didn't. I escaped and I killed them all. No, I'm alive and I think I'll stay that way. _With_ my money."

"You don't need to harm Ray. He did nothing to you."

"He has the key. It's mine. If I have to spill a little more blood to get it, then so be it."

Ray snapped. "Oh, yeah? Come on and shoot me then. You want to kill everybody, you want to kill me? I will kick you in your old lady head!"

MacKenzie's finger tightened on the trigger. Ray braced himself. Something flew past him, a streak of motion, and slammed into the gun, knocking it out of MacKenzie's hand. She screamed and dove for it.

Ray was blinking, confused--there were two guns on the ground now. Where had the other come from?--when Steve grabbed him, tugging him back towards the stage.

"You threw your gun?" Ray asked. "Why would you throw your gun?"

"I'm afraid I don't have a firearms permit, Ray. I had no choice."

"Steve, you're a crook. Crooks don't care about permits." They pelted up the stairs next to the stage.

"Ah. About that." Steve didn't even sound winded. Bastard.

"No, never mind. We don't have time. Just, you don't ever throw your gun. Freak."

"I'll try to remember that." They slid across the stage. Ray was going to be picking splinters out of his ass for a week, but at least no one was shooting at him. Yet.

"Yeah. Not that it does us any good now. Come on, come on, we've got to get out of sight." Ray twisted himself behind a pillar, pulling Steve in behind him.

MacKenzie's voice floated out of the darkness. "All right, Mr. Kowalski. The game's over."

Steve leaned close and whispered in his ear. "We'll split up. You find your way out of here. I'll distract her." Ray shook his head violently. No way was he leaving Steve here with that psycho. When he turned to argue, Steve was gone.

"I don't want to kill you, Stanley." How many times did he have to tell people this? It was _Ray_. "But I will."

He crept along the stage, searching for Steve. MacKenzie stood under the canopy, in plain view once he slid his glasses out of his pocket and onto his face. Not that he had a gun to aim with. In fact, it looked like MacKenzie had grabbed them both, so if he tried to jump her he was doubly screwed.

"Did you hear me, Mr. Kowalski?" Ray saw a flash of movement across the stage. Steve. Had to be. MacKenzie suddenly spun and fired into the darkness.

Or tried to. Must have had a misfire or something, because the hammer on the gun just clicked. Steve ducked back out of sight.

"I won't wait much longer, Mr. Kowalski." Ray scanned the wings, sure that Steve hadn't gone far. He finally spotted him, crouched near the pulleys and stuff that controlled the lights. Steve signaled, gesturing at himself and then at MacKenzie. Ray shook his head. He pointed at MacKenzie and then up. Steve would figure it out.

"I know you're in there, Stanley." Ray stepped out onto the stage.

"My name is Ray, lady. How tough is that to remember?" MacKenzie swung around, both hands on her own gun. Ray stepped closer and waved the key at her. "You want this?

"It's mine, Mr. Kowalski. Ray." She glared at him. "Now just slide it over, and you can walk away."

"Oh, I don't think so." Ray crouched and set the key on the floor. "You won't get far, you know."

"I'll get far enough. Now step away." Ray shuffled back a few feet, far enough to be out of reach. MacKenzie slid over to the key and tucked her gun into her waistband. As she knelt to retrieve the key, Ray nodded his head.

Startled, MacKenzie looked up at a clatter in the rafters. She grabbed for her gun, and Ray dove out of the way. When he rolled back to look for the gun, he found himself face to face with a rubber duck. Steve ran over, grabbed his hand, and hauled him to his feet.

He didn't let go as they turned to stare at the smashed crate, MacKenzie's fingers stretched out from beneath. Ray thought he saw her twitch, but maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. He leaned into Steve's shoulder.

"I think you'd better call the local authorities, Ray." Ray nodded shakily. "You'll understand if I don't wait for them to arrive, I presume. I need to check in with my partner."

 

** _"is this who you wanted me to be"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) It was the middle of the night before Ray got back to the hotel. He looked over at Steve's door, but the crime scene tape made it pretty clear that they wouldn't be seeing each other anytime soon. No fortune, no sexy criminal, not even a bottle of something to comfort him. This sucked.

He flipped through the stations, but there was nothing worth watching. He was just thinking about ordering a pizza or Chinese when there was a knock. Cop knock. Probably Welsh coming to fire him.

Vecchio stood on the other side, holding a trash bag and an envelope. Ray moved out of the way, but Vecchio didn't come in. Instead, he pushed it all into Ray's arms and stepped back. "Welsh told me to bring this stuff by. It's yours."

Ray didn't interrupt.

"Look, we took that key and traced the serial number. Belonged to a storage space down on 41st." Vecchio poked at the bag. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." Ray waited. "It was full of your stuff. Not all of it, just some of those ratty clothes you wear and records. Stuff that..."

"Stuff that wasn't worth anything."

Vecchio looked down the hall. "Yeah. Papers, photographs, that kind of thing." Ray set down the bag and opened it. "You've got some ugly-ass plates, you know that?" Inside were clothes, boots. His dog tags. Andreas's cufflinks. "There was a pile of bearer bonds, too. $2.5 million and change. The whole take from the robbery."

"So I can have my stuff back." His voice sounded weird. Must be catching a cold. Underneath the clothes he found a coffee mug and a box of Smarties. Half a bottle of scotch that usually sat in Vecchio's desk drawer.

"You okay?" Ray nodded. "Good. We--I mean, Welsh thought you might need some clean clothes. You can pick the rest up from the evidence lockup when you get a new place."

"Thanks." Vecchio shrugged. "Tell Welsh I said thanks."

"I can do that. Call Stella, would you? She's driving me crazy."

"Tell her I'm fine. Tired. I'll call tomorrow." He picked up the bag again. "I'll see you around." He stepped back and closed the door.

After Vecchio left, Ray sat in the dark for a long time. His eyes were dry. Eventually he fell asleep.

When he woke up the clock read four and he wasn't tired anymore. He rolled over, taking the pressure off his dick.

It should be over. He should be happy. They got the killer, Ray was cleared, nobody was gunning for him anymore. He even had his stuff back, some of it. He should be in party mode. Instead, he crawled off the bed and started pacing the floor of his shitty hotel room, pissed and scared and sad and turned on. And it was all because of the clean-cut, handsome, helpful, _lying crook_ who wasn't next door.

This was the worst of all possible bad times to be thinking of jumping Steve. Not that telling himself that stopped him from thinking it. Or even slowed him down. Ray had a little chant going in his head: Steve's a crook, Steve's taken off already, Steve's a liar. It was a shitty tune, and couldn't drown out the way his dick kept twitching every time he thought about stripping Steve down and licking him all over.

The handle of the connecting door turned, and Steve was standing right there, so close Ray nearly walked into him.

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) "What--" Ray didn't get a chance to finish the question before Steve was right up in his face, kissing him. Ray was humping Steve's leg with his tongue halfway down his throat before he remembered. Pulling away, he said really fast, "You could stop. You could come clean, go straight--"

Steve made a pained sound and kissed him again, his mouth open and his tongue hungry in Ray's mouth.

Every time Ray tried to say something Steve shut him up, until Ray couldn't remember what he'd been trying to say, couldn't have formed the words anyway. When Steve was splayed out on his back on the bed, naked and strong and beautiful, and Ray was lying between his thighs just like he'd wanted, he couldn't handle it. Shifting up, he said, "Roll over."

Without a moment's hesitation, Steve rolled over and up onto his knees. Ray wanted to fuck him hard, wanted to cry. Instead he pressed his mouth to Steve's ass and tried to break him with pleasure. Steve gasped at the first lick and moaned when Ray pushed his tongue inside. By the time Ray was fucking him with his tongue, Steve was shuddering and opening for him and it was good, it was almost good enough.

When Ray's jaw felt sore and Steve was pushing back onto his tongue, Ray leaned up and reached around on the bedside table. Steve was still up on his knees, his head turned to watch Ray. He was sweaty and messy and his eyes were wild and hot and a little lost and Ray looked away.

He got himself ready and kneed up behind him, pressing his dick inside. Steve made a broken sound and drove back, taking him all the way. Ray leaned down, draping himself over Steve's back and tried to hold himself together.

"Ray."

"Yeah," he agreed, and shifted to pull out and drive back in harder, pushing himself into Steve the way Steve had gotten into him. Trying to get under his skin and leave a mark, trying to change Steve into somebody who would be the guy Ray needed. It wasn't working, but Ray tried. He didn't know what else to do. Just, fucking felt all wrong, but he couldn't trust words, so what else was there?

Ray wasn't crying, but he almost wished he could. Because this looked like sex, but it felt like goodbye. It felt like Steve was already gone, even though he was kneeling there, taking everything Ray had, vibrating with something that could have been arousal but probably wasn't. Listening to Steve's choked panting, Ray was glad he didn't have to look him in the eye.

He wasn't paying that much attention to what his body wanted, was busy thinking about how you almost never knew when you were fucking someone for the last time, but this time he could see it coming. His orgasm was almost an afterthought, but then he felt Steve collapse underneath him, sweat running down his face and his whole body shaking like he was going to come apart.

They settled onto the bed, Ray managing to discard the condom without peeling himself off Steve's back. He must have been heavy, but Steve wasn't complaining or shifting or anything, just had his hands wrapped around Ray's arms, holding them tight against his chest.

"Please?" Ray asked.

After a couple of breaths Steve said, real quietly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lie to you. I'm just so terribly sorry. I didn't have a choice."

And that didn't make any more sense than anything else about Benton/MacKenzie/Steve or this whole week, so Ray just pressed his nose into Steve's hair and breathed him in. It was better this way. Steve would go be the world's nicest bad guy somewhere else and Ray would try to get his life back together. Without a crook boyfriend, for a change.

He wasn't sure if it was true, but he couldn't stop himself from saying, "I could go with you."

Even though it stung when Steve stiffened in his arms and said "Don't" and "Sleep," he closed his eyes and did.

 

** _"are you still someone who'll watch over me"_ **

 

[*](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/98218.html#cutid3) Ray walked up the steps to the Consulate alone. Fucking building. Fucking _Canada_. This time there was a guy out front but when he asked where the liaison's office was the guy just stood there in his toy soldier outfit and stared straight ahead. Fucking Canadians. They were supposed to be polite, but Ray sure wasn't getting any international cooperation out of that clown.

He gave up after a couple of minutes, but when he went in there was another red guy sitting at the desk by the front door. They must grow them in six packs up there. The second guy looked up and said brightly, "Welcome to Canada, sir. How may I help you?"

Ray frowned. This one seemed familiar somehow. He shrugged, because at least the guy talked. "Constable Fraser? The, uh, liaison?"

The guy nodded. "That's right, sir. Constable Fraser is liaison to the Chicago police department." Then he just kept looking at Ray, blank and perky.

"Yeah, I'm here to see him."

"Very good, sir."

Ray was running out of patience. "So, where's his office?"

"Constable Fraser's office is right down the hall to the left. You can't miss it. But I'm afraid he has an appointment."

This guy couldn't be for real. "Yeah. With me. I'm Ray Kowalski."

"Oh, of course you are. Well then, Constable Fraser is waiting for you."

Shaking his head, Ray made his way to the office. Knocking on the half-open door, he looked inside. Boxes. Lots of boxes. Place looked more like a closet than an office. Stepping inside, he saw--of course--yet another guy in a red suit. This one stood as Ray came in, looking at Ray with Steve's face.

Ray looked back behind himself, expecting a candid camera crew or a funhouse mirror or something. He pointed, frowning. "You," he said. "Here," he said. To drive his point home, he said, "Red."

The guy with Steve's face said, "Yes, Ray. I work here."

"_You_ are not a Mountie! You are a liar and a crook and you are gone and you lie like a..." Ray dropped down into a chair and put his head in his hands. "You lie like a rug."

"It's rather a long story. And I do believe you deserve an explanation." This guy talked like Steve, but even more uptight. Ray wanted to kill him.

Instead, Ray twitched his fingers, not taking his head out of his hands.

"The Canadian intelligence service has been pursuing Holloway Muldoon, Sam Franklin, Damon Cahill, and Andre Renard, who you, of course, knew as Andreas Volpe in an effort to retrieve funds stolen in a robbery four years ago. They have been pursuing Ruth MacKenzie, aka Ruth Henry, since her escape from prison approximately one year ago. Recently they learned that the man you knew as Volpe had double-crossed the others, and succeeded in discovering his whereabouts. Shortly before he was to have been taken into custody, he was murdered."

Ray wanted to _kill_ him.

"Canadian intelligence didn't know where the stolen money was, and believed you were in the best position to know. As there was not sufficient time to provide a trained undercover operative, this Consulate received orders to approach you and attempt to gain your trust."

Or maybe himself.

"It was a rather unusual situation. I was on a short holiday, and my superior officer is attending a conference in Ottawa. Constable Turnbull, whom you met at the front desk, initially took it upon himself to perform the task, but he suffered an injury."

Ray groaned. Stanley's. Front desk Mountie was the secret not-boyfriend, watcher of the secret kid. Ray wondered if he could kill him, too. Justifiable homicide. No jury would convict him.

"At the last minute, I was called upon to approach you. By coincidence, I was camping not far from the ski resort where we met."

Ray was still weighing the pros and cons of death and murder when he heard the constable with Steve's face saying his name over and over. Steve had done that, he thought. Raising his head, he said, "So, what's your name?"

"Ah. Benton Robert Fraser. Constable Fraser. Most people use my surname, which is, of course, Fraser."

Ray sat back in his seat, looking at this new guy narrowly. He even looked good in that stupid outfit, the asshole. "Fraser, huh? Can't say I ever met anybody by that name. Met a Benton and a Robert, though. And a Steve and a MacKenzie."

Fraser flushed. "I'm afraid I may have been forced to prevaricate slightly," he said, making Ray snort. "I do have a sister named Maggie--"

"Maggie Fraser-Benton-MacKenzie-Pinsent?" Ray interrupted.

"No, actually. Maggie MacKenzie. It is rather a common name in our area. One can only imagine Ruth Henry-MacKenzie-Nautilus based her alias for the Bank of Canada heist on the famous MacKenzie River, the longest river in Canada. My sister--well, half-sister--is, fortunately, still alive. And you would like her, I think."

"I'm sure we'll be bosom buddies," Ray sneered.

"I'd like that."

Ray stared.

Fraser looked wildly uncomfortable, but plowed on. "I hope you understand. I don't know how to _make_ you understand. This assignment was very difficult for me."

"Yeah, taking it up the ass for justice is rough."

Fraser ignored him. "In fact, Turnbull's intention to fulfill it himself, while misguided, was an act of generosity. I don't, I don't lie, Ray. I didn't lie."

That was rich. Ray's face must have shown what he thought of that one, because Fraser flinched. "I did have to tell you untruths. I didn't want to, I didn't like it. It was my duty. You understand, Ray? I had orders."

Ray shifted in his seat. He didn't want to understand. He'd been a cop. He knew undercover was always dirty, even when it wasn't. But he didn't want to feel sympathy for Fraser, not even a little.

"But, Ray, when it counted. About the important things. About...you and me. I didn't lie."

Ray couldn't look at him. He couldn't do this again. All this time, Fraser'd been undercover. Fraser'd been investigating _him_.

Suddenly, Ray jumped out of his seat and leaned across the chair, jabbing two fingers in Fraser's face. "Who knew? Did Vecchio know? Did Welsh? Those scum-sucking, disloyal pieces of _shit_." Ray slapped the desk with his palm then swept a pile of papers onto the floor. That wasn't good enough, so he spun and punched the closet door. Fuck. God, that hurt. Bad habit.

Ray was cradling his hand in the other, head down, blinking hard, when Fraser touched his shoulder.

"Back up, Fraser," he warned.

Fraser dropped his hand but didn't step away. "I usually liaise with the 20th precinct, Ray. I've never met Lieutenant Welsh and Detective Vecchio before this week. They were informed of my identity after the operation was already underway."

"Bastards," Ray muttered.

"They both objected in the strongest possible terms. I believe the only thing keeping them from defying orders was their certainty that you were innocent of any wrongdoing, and that your best interests would be served by you behaving honorably in ignorance, as you did."

Jeez, Ray's hand hurt. Fraser reached out and took it, gently inspecting for damage.

"I don't think it's broken," Fraser said.

Ray just shook his head.

"Ray," Fraser's voice was kind of tentative. "I don't want to presume. I understand if your feelings have altered. But there's something else you may be overlooking."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I'm not a criminal, Ray."

When Ray finally looked at him, Fraser was blushing again, but he was looking at Ray clear and direct and, damn, it still did things to him.

Ray grinned. "Yeah, so, we're doomed. See, I only go for the bad boys."

"I was rather hoping you'd make an exception."

"And Mrs. Fraser?"

Fraser shook his head.

"Really." He had to ask. "How did MacKenzie get an office here? And her office was huge. Not like this rathole."

Fraser looked mildly offended at the insult to Canada. "When did you meet her? What time of day?"

"Early. Eight or so."

"The Consulate doesn't open until nine. Without me sleeping here--"

Ray pulled his hand away from Fraser's so he could concentrate. "Hold on a minute. You sleep in your office?"

"Well, yes. I lost my apartment to the efforts of a performance arsonist," Ray didn't see even a flicker of a smile, "and for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture," at this juncture. Jesus. "I've been staying here at the Consulate."

"How long?"

Fraser tugged at his stiff collar. It was still a tell. "Approximately eleven months."

Maybe they could get a two bedroom. One for them, one for Fraser's kid. Or maybe an office or a really big closet. Only, hang on. "So when you said partner, you meant buddy. Like cop partner."

Fraser rubbed at his eyebrow. "Not precisely, no." Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ray clenched his fist again. "Diefenbaker." Great. The partner had another stupid Canadian name. "He's a wolf." Big surprise. "Well, half wolf. I'm sure you'll get along fine."

Ray heard clicking in the hallway, and turned around just in time to get tackled by ninety pounds of fur and slobber. "What the hell? Get him off me! Fraser? He's licking my ear."

"I'm afraid you'll have to enunciate, Ray. He's deaf."

Great. A crazy Mountie and his deaf half wolf. This was _such_ a bad idea.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [48 Hours Later](https://archiveofourown.org/works/70714) by [omphale23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23)




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